


smoke and fire

by Em11134



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crushes, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Hal Cooper is the only killer, Healing, Jason Blossom Lives, Reluctant Serpent Jughead, Sisters of Quiet Mercy, The Black Hood, The Ghoulies, Trauma, gearhead Betty, investigative bughead, southside serpents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:40:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em11134/pseuds/Em11134
Summary: Betty Cooper, the daughter of a serial killer, and Jughead Jones, the son of a gang leader, write, fall in love, and rediscover their innocence the summer after high school.A meditation on the ethics of true crime writing in the form of a sappy love story.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones, Cheryl Blossom/Toni Topaz (minor), Kevin Keller/Fangs Fogarty (minor), Kevin Keller/Moose Mason (Minor), Polly Cooper/Jason Blossom (minor), Veronica Lodge/Archie Andrews (minor)
Comments: 257
Kudos: 83





	1. graduation party

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: canon-typical drug and alcohol use, murder, self-harm, panic attacks, child neglect, child abuse, homophobia, religious abuse, and classism.
> 
> This is an AU that incorporates elements from S1 & S2, but significantly diverges from canon.

Jughead Jones has his back to the crowd. If anyone asks, he’ll say, “I have to show off the snake patch. The customers need to know I’m the one with the product, after all.” But the truth is, he’d rather not witness these sordid teenage rituals.

He can hear Reggie Mantle behind him. “You really think she’s a 7, bro? I’d say 5, tops.” A drunk girl yells “Woo hoo!” at a volume and pitch that could puncture an eardrum, and Jughead stands with an exasperated sigh.

He wishes he was at Pop’s, eating a burger and working on his novel. He wishes he was home, under the covers with his tattered copy of _Farewell, My Lovely._ He wishes he had noise-canceling headphones, so he could block out the din with some Velvet Underground. He wishes he had an intact phone screen, so he could read the Errol Morris essay he bookmarked this morning. 

Sometimes, he wishes he’d never put on a Serpent jacket. But he ran the gauntlet, he reached into the snake tank, and he let Toni ink the S on his arm. Like father, like son. So his Saturday nights belong to these hedonistic teenagers.

When Reggie and Moose Mason start re-enacting the last football game, he moves further away. He doesn’t want to be knocked over by a sloppy tackle, and Moose is almost too drunk to stand. He takes off his hat and runs his hands through his thick black hair.

Then he spots a trio in the distance, cross-legged on a gingham blanket. He recognizes one figure’s ginger hair, vivid even in the shadows, and walks toward them. When he’s close enough to discern their features, he halts, unsure whether he should interrupt. Then he locks eyes with Betty Cooper. 

Betty Cooper is the sort of beautiful that belongs on the silver screen, and, as usual, he’s slow to look away. She lowers the can of hard seltzer, and she smiles at him. They’ve been on the periphery of each other’s lives for years, but she’s never smiled at him quite like this before, so he turns to see if there’s anyone behind him. But there’s no one else there.

When he looks back toward the fire, Veronica Lodge is smirking, eyebrow arched. She glances between him and Betty and calls, “Torombolo! Come join us!” Betty looks down, twirling a piece of her wavy blonde hair. He pulls on his beanie.

“Oh, hey, Jug!” Archie Andrews waves him over, genial as always. “We’ve got s’mores, if you want some!”

Jughead and Archie have been as good as brothers for as long as they can remember; their fathers were best friends, once. Jughead and Veronica, on the other hand, have never been close, despite their shared love of Archie and classic cinema. Like most one-percenters, she’s entitled and oblivious, and Jughead resents her for her inheritance: Hiram Lodge was jailed for white collar crimes, but his business rebounded after his release, and now he showers his daughter with enough jewels to make pearls look like casual wear. Jughead is set to inherit his father’s gang, the Southside Serpents, a dingy trailer, and a dive.

Betty, well...at first, he avoided her. It was too uncomfortable to third wheel his crush and his friend. In middle school, he was certain that Betty and Archie would live a Hallmark romance: dance at Homecoming, kiss in the moonlight, go full white picket fence by 25. He’d be Uncle Jug to their strawberry blonde children, hiding his pining behind sardonic wit.

When Veronica Lodge blew into town, and that fantasy was smithereens, Jughead wondered, _Is this my moment?_ He told himself, _Be bold_. When he saw Betty, he made a point of asking about her work at the school newspaper. He complimented her baking, careful not to talk with his mouth full. He brought up what he was reading to see if she’d read it, too. 

But he never asked her out. Every time he came close, something reminded him that she’s out of his league: town sweetheart Trev Brown winking at her at Pop’s, or her mother’s screed against his gang in the _Riverdale_ _Register_. His black Chucks were ratty, white plastic stained by dirt and fading snakes (Toni broke out the Sharpie when he fell asleep in study hall.) They looked absurd next to Betty's' pristine floral Keds, her laces tied in tidy bows. The grubby Serpent Prince wasn't meant for the golden Northside Princess.

And now. Well, now, everything’s different. He hasn’t seen Betty since her father’s arrest for serial murder. Of course, he doesn’t blame her for sticking close to home. Archie suggested that she finish the semester online, but she swore that she could handle whispers and stares. Jughead can’t imagine how she bore it. Someone spray painted “Murder House” on the Cooper’s front door, and, after Fred Andrews repainted it, did it again. In the end, Alice Cooper told Fred to let it be. “They don't need another excuse to come here. Allow those miscreants their pathetic little victories.” 

When Jughead reaches the trio, he keeps his back facing the rest of the party. He wants to be a barrier between Betty and the crowd. Archie bumps his shoulder approvingly, offering him a stick. 

Betty says, “Hi, Jug,” handing him a bag of marshmallows. When he spears one with gusto, she laughs, her perfect white teeth shining. He smiles at the daisies painted on her pink nails. This close, he can see that her eyes are bloodshot, though his dark circles are still darker than hers.

It’s quieter here, the popping of the firewood a distraction from the shrieks of laughter and the bass drop in the distance. It smells of wood smoke and sugar and forest earth. He takes a deep breath, shoulders loosening, and shrugs off his leather jacket. 

“Time to clock out?” Veronica’s purple dress probably costs more than his motorcycle, and Archie carries her over mud puddles to protect her fancy heels. _You don’t know anything about work,_ he thinks sourly. 

“Almost. Interested in the last bag? Usual price.” 

She pulls crisp bills from a sparkling money clip. Her burgundy nails are adorned with roses.

Archie shifts in his seat. He was devastated by Jughead’s stint in juvie, and he worries Jughead is doomed to end up in jail like his dad. Jughead could never figure out if Betty felt the same way and never had the courage to ask. 

“Don’t worry, Arch,” Betty laughs. “No one can see us, and they wouldn’t snitch, even if they could. We’re the soberest people at this party.”

The redhead ruffles her hair. “You’re not so sober, Betty.” She bats his hand away like a disgruntled kitten, then turns to Jughead, smiling encouragingly. 

“So what brought you to the hinterlands? Tired of the Bulldogs?”

“Isn’t it verboten for a cheerleader to disparage her football team in public?”

The girls laugh. “High school’s over,” Veronica says, “and so are high school obligations. As much as we enjoyed showing off our dancing skills, neither of us was ever fond of football players.”

“Hey!” Archie interjects, pointing at the yellow "RHS Football" on his blue t shirt.

“Besides you, of course, Archiekins!”

“Trev was always nice to me,” Betty says, tapping a square on the blanket, and Jughead suppresses a pang of jealousy. “Moose is...Moose is alright.” Her voice trails off, and she looks down, clenching her fist.

 _Oh._ Moose Mason was Midge Klump’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Though Jughead sold Midge Jingle Jangle a time or two, he can’t remember what she looked like before Hal Cooper stabbed her. He only recalls the photo of her corpse and her yearbook headshot, the one they used on the news.

Veronica unfolds Betty’s fist and then refolds it over her own. “The other boys are cretins.” Her tone is aggressively normal.

Taking a generous gulp of seltzer, Betty nods. “Reggie and Chuck Clayton and Jason Blossom...well, I don’t care that he’s marrying my sister. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s a bully. They had this game-”

“Pigs,” Veronica huffs.

“-where they’d award each other points for having sex-9 points for the fat girl, 13 points for the new girl, that sort of thing-and logged their scores in a playbook. The one with the highest score was Big Man On Campus.”

“Betty and Veronica threatened to go public with all the stuff the team was doing. It was a lot calmer after that."

“My sister dating the football captain turned out to be good for something,” Betty smirks. “I had plenty of blackmail material.”

Jughead laughs, shaking his head incredulously.

Betty takes a messy bite of her s’more, and he marvels that even her clumsiness is adorable. He licks his own lips self-consciously.

Archie adds, “Chuck went after Veronica, and I didn’t even have to punch him. I mean, I _did_ punch him, but the girls took care of themselves.”

“We were at a party at Ethel Mugg’s house.”

“You remember Ethel, don’t you, Jughead?” Betty teases.

He puts his hand over his face. “Oh, god. If only I could forget.” Ethel Muggs was his first kiss: she planted one on him at Pop’s Diner, in full view of Betty, Archie, and every Serpent under 18. He didn’t understand why she was leaning in until it was too late, and jerking back, arms windmilling, he fell into the booth. Ethel fled in mortification and still won't make eye contact with him. Sweet Pea called him “Heartbreaker” for most of eighth grade. 

“She has a hot tub, and B had a genius idea. We’d lure him there with our womanly wiles, Ethel would turn the temperature up to Agonizing, and then we’d dunk him.”

“It didn’t take much,” Betty says, “because he was high and drunk and clumsy.”

“‘Next time,’ she told him, ‘we’ll tie you up and boil you,” Veronica recounts with relish. “He was slurring apologies, tripping towards the door.”

It’s hard to imagine Betty as a threat. In her denim skirt and eyelet top, she looks impossibly pure. Her legs are folded modestly, and her yellow flats are decorated with little bee charms.

“We really scared him.”

“He deserved it!” Veronica insists, wagging her finger at Betty. “Don’t waste sympathy on Chuck Clayton.” Then she laughs and bops her nose, and Betty bops hers back. 

“Sometimes rough justice is all we have.” Jughead shrugs. He thinks of the Serpents: Sweet Pea, beating up the Greendale Ghoulies who jumped him; his father, smashing Penny Peabody’s bike, promising to do worse if she double-crossed him again; Toni stealing the mean girls’ clothes during gym, elbowing them in the halls, keying their cars. He likes the image of Betty Cooper: Ruthless Avenger.

“I don’t feel bad for Chuck,” Archie says.

Veronica is watching Jughead chew a chocolate bar with mild disgust. “So do you have any thrilling summer plans? A drag race? A rumble or two?”

“He’s not a character from _The Outsiders_ , V,” Betty scolds.

“If the leather jacket fits!” 

“I’m working at the Twilight. I’ll probably spend most of my free time reading, writing my novel, and riding my bike. I’m sorry if that doesn’t live up to your T-bird fantasies.”

“That’s cool, Jug!” Archie says. “If you need a tune-up, Betty’s working at Fairlane’s this summer.”

“I didn’t know you were into cars! I’ve got some friends who work there. You should tell them we’re...that we know each other. Sweet Pea and Fangs. Those are their names.” _A gearhead, too. She really is the perfect girl._ His heart is beating double-time, and he’s annoyed by his own bashfulness. Fiddling with the cuff of his blue flannel, he thinks, _I’m eighteen. How am I still so nervous?_

He clears his throat. “What about you guys?”

“I’m visiting Mom in Chicago. My parents figured it might be good to have a break from Riverdale.” Jughead can read between the lines: they want to free Archie from the memory of his rapist, Geraldine Grundy, and her killer, his neighbor Hal Cooper. “Ronnie’s coming in August. I wish you could visit, man.”

“I’ve heard good things about deep-dish pizza. And what was it that Nelsen Algren said? “An October sort of city even in the spring?” Sounds like my kind of place.” 

“Maybe you can play _The Man with the Golden Arm_ at the Twilight,” Betty suggests. “A series of film adaptations of American novels, starting with Algren!” 

“I,” Veronica declares, “will be in New York for most of the summer. Drinking cappuccino at Sant’Ambreous, drinking in art at the MoMA. But I can’t wait to explore the Windy City. We can take a boat out on the lake, Archiekins! Wouldn’t that be romantic? And see the Garfield Conservatory, of course. You know, our Betty has developed something of a green thumb.”

Betty shrugs. “I’ve been tearing up the backyard to plant flowers. It’s relaxing.”

“Of course, before I go to New York, I’ll be spending every spare minute with you, B.” Veronica leans her head on her shoulder. “And I’m sure Kevin will keep you plenty busy.” She stares meaningfully at Jughead, but he can’t figure out what she wants him to do. She huffs.

“I’ll be fine,” Betty says firmly. “I’m going to start the new Maggie Nelson memoir.” 

“Oh, man. I love her. Have you read _Jane: A Murder_?” Jughead wants to bite his tongue, and Archie sucks in a loud breath, but Betty doesn’t flinch.

“Yes! Last year! I thought it was gorgeous. I cried.”

They are interrupted by his buzzing phone, and he scowls at Toni’s name on the screen.

“Duty calls,” he sighs. “Thanks for the food.”

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon, Torombolo.” Veronica elbows Betty, who says, “I hope so!” She almost looks reluctant to see him go. _Wishful thinking,_ he tells himself.

Jughead is still a bit dizzy from her attention by the time he’s reached the red Alfa Romeo Spider. The top is down, and the radio is blasting some autotuned pop he doesn’t want to know the name of. Slightly removed from the rest of the debauchery, a half dozen younger Serpents are rough housing and laughing, and Jughead salutes them as he walks by.

Toni is straddling the invisible line between the Southside Serpents and the kids from the Northside of town. Her girlfriend Cheryl Blossom leans against the car beside her; he’s sure she practiced that pose in front of the mirror. She’s dressed in a white crop top and a miniskirt with burgundy stripes. A black velvet ribbon is tied around her neck.

“Hobo,” Cheryl greets him. “it took you long enough to answer our summons.”

“I’m not your dog.” He turns to Toni, “When you untie that bow, does her head fall off? And if it does, can we pull it now?”

“Children,” Toni interjects, “Don’t fight. I love you both equally.” Then, brisker, “How’s business?”

“Handled.” He picks up her Serpent jacket from the backseat and transfers the money from his pocket to hers. 

“Was that Betty Cooper I saw you sitting with? I always thought she was wound too tight for reefer madness. I guess a lot has changed this year.”

“I sold to Veronica Lodge. We were just hanging out.” Jughead tugs at his beanie uncomfortably. 

He’s been hiding his crush from Toni since they were freshmen, when she strong-armed him into attending the Southside-RHS basketball games. She said, “We have to cover them. No reputable school newspaper can ignore the athletics department.” Now he knows it was her excuse to ogle Cheryl Blossom’s high kicks; she probably forgot he existed as soon as the redhead started shaking her pom poms. At the time, though, he was terrified that she would notice him staring at Betty Cooper. He could do without the mockery-or Cheryl’s twisted take on his love life.

Toni arches an eyebrow, “Planning to defect?”

He laughs. “It’d be easier for you to grab the crown, if I spent less time on the Southside. I’ve told you a thousand times, by the way: you’re welcome to it.” He motions to Cheryl. “I’ve been friends with Archie since the sandbox. If I haven’t gone preppy yet, it’s not going to happen. And you don’t hear me doubting your cred, even though you’re dating a Northsider.”

“Oh, please,” Cheryl scoffs. “I’m no mere Northsider. I’m _the_ Northsider. Archie Andrews, on the other hand, has the IQ and temperament of a golden retriever, Veronica Lodge is a Blair Waldorf knockoff with delusions of grandeur, and, Betty Cooper, well. Nightmare Smurfette has too many flaws to list.”

He clenches his fists. “Isn’t she your cousin? And isn’t her sister married to your brother?” His mouth twists. “Gross, by the way.”

“ _Distant_ cousins, pauper prince. Her sister can be insufferable, too, though I've no doubt that she will be improved by my JJ’s influence and time away from those noxious Coopers. Mediocrity must be carried in the gene for blonde hair.”

“Or murder,” Toni laughs. “Didn’t your mother have a cameo on the news saying that the Black Hood used Betty as bait?”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “That’s ridiculous. He didn’t need bait. He wasn’t some shady drifter. Everyone knew who he was and thought he was harmless. That’s why it was so messed up.”

“Well, you’d know, Murder Board,” Toni says. She turns to Cheryl. “I'm not kidding. He had an actual murder board in the _Red & Black _office, before Cooper took out our advisor and the paper closed. Photos of victims and suspects, newspaper clippings. Real red thread stuff. It was pretty cool, actually. Of course, we didn’t catch the guy.” 

“We might have, if I had a little help,” Jughead responds, a bit peevish. “But you never took it seriously.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, your dad is off god-knows-where doing god-knows-what, and most of you boys are useless. It’s been me and my grandfather doing the books for the bar-with the occasional assist from Sweet Pea. I didn’t have time to play detective.”

“My TT is a true business woman,” Cheryl says proudly, running a red talon along the waistband of her girlfriend’s skirt. Toni's violet top is sheer enough to show off her black bra and the tattoo on her side, but Cheryl traces the S from memory. “We’ll have an empire, between the maples and the drugs. She can’t be bothered to tag along on all your morbid little adventures.”

He takes a deep breath to defend himself, since Toni has a blind spot the size of Jupiter when it comes to Cheryl. She ignores the constant jabs at his poverty, even though they should offend her, too, since she had to couch surf her way through freshman year. She insists they don’t matter, because they’ll be rich soon enough. Toni calls Cheryl’s poisonous wit “exciting” and “spicy.” 

Before he can speak, though, Toni asks, “Are you trying to get the inside scoop on the Black Hood murders from his daughter?” 

“No!” he says. “I mean, yeah, I’m interested in the story. But I went over there for some s’mores, that’s all.”

Toni grins. “Ride out to Coney Island this summer and compete in the hot dog eating contest. I bet you’d win. Maybe even get an endorsement deal.” She nudges his shoulder, ignoring Cheryl’s angry sniff. “College fund.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Yeah, yeah. We done? You know I hate parties.” _And Blossoms._

“You’re free, misfit,” Toni laughs. He pulls her into a quick hug and nods curtly at Cheryl. The first time they met, she put out her hand for him to kiss, then scowled when he turned it into a handshake. He doesn't think she's forgiven him yet. Strolling to the clearing where the Serpents parked their bikes, he stops long enough to exchange back slaps and fist bumps with the boys. He isn’t sure if they’ll remember any of this tomorrow.

Jughead puts on his helmet, etched with a crown. He looks up at the sky, blue and crowded with stars, and something inside him says: _This is the beginning._


	2. the summer of betty cooper

Betty wakes to jangling guitar and the clinking of crystal. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes, remembering too late that she never washed off her mascara, and twists the edge of her quilt. The bandages survived the night. She’d ruined her pretty cream comforter months ago; all that thrashing from the nightmares peeled them off. Fortunately, the new blanket is colorful enough to hide bloodstains. 

Betty wonders why she never dreams about the dead, or about the look on her father’s face when she hit him with that shovel. Instead, she has fairy tale nightmares; she’s speared on a rack of antlers, or she’s falling into a well that twists into a black hole. She’s grateful, though. _The sooner I forget my father’s face, the better,_ she thinks.

After washing her face, brushing her teeth, and putting on her lounge clothes (a River Vixens shirt, shorts, socks with ice cream cones on them), she heads downstairs. 

“Morning, Mom!” Betty calls, guzzling a glass of orange juice, then taking a bite of cold Pop Tart. A year ago, this would have triggered a twenty minute lecture about her slow metabolism and the dangers of high fructose corn syrup. Now, Alice Cooper makes no mention of the cabinets full of processed food. _Oh, what a strange new world._ Her mother’s greeting is barely audible, so Betty goes to the living room. 

It’s total chaos. Instead of the Portugese tile coasters and hardcover book about impressionist art, the coffee table is crowded with dishware: porcelain tea set, crystal cruet, gold napkin rings. Polly’s flute stands in the blue Cloisonne vase like a flower. On the side table, there are piles of odds and ends: a wooden mallard figurine of her father’s, an antique globe, half a dozen dove grey picture frames. The floor is an obstacle course of cardboard boxes.

“The sky was made of amethyst,” Alice sings to herself, sliding last year’s family portrait into a manila envelope. Betty has a vivid memory of portrait day, her mother squeezing her jaw to force it into a more flattering angle. Her father whispered that she was naturally pretty and shouldn’t worry about what her mother said.

“Mom, what is all this?

She startles. “Oh, good morning, honey,” she says, distracted, smoothing her unbrushed blonde hair. “I started clearing things out. Wrongful death suit, bankruptcy, etcetera... I found my old record player in the attic, though. I haven’t listened to this one in years! Oh, and I saved this for you!” She rifles through a canvas backpack until she finds a framed photograph. It’s Betty, age 6, gleefully lifting a ginger kitten towards the camera.

“Caramel! Thanks, Mom. So, what are you doing with the other photos?” 

Betty has been wondering why her mother kept them since that spring day when they drove into the woods to build a pyre. Alice had ripped the lace from her wedding dress while Betty tore up handmade Father’s Day cards. She used to feel proud that Hal hung them up in the garage, insisting they were masterpieces. Now, it makes her nauseous. The flames were hypnotizing. Watching them burn, she was barely aware of her mother’s keening.

“I’m mailing them, of course. Here, help me address these labels. You always had the most gorgeous penmanship.”

“...to who?” 

“Let me look for his name.” She turns over the envelope. “Oh, here we are. Joe Meucci. BerkowitzsEyebrowz72 on the Crime of the Century forum. I never knew how much people would pay for this sort of thing! I’ve found a buyer for your father’s golf clubs already. And the Bible! That’ll get us a nice next egg. We have to capitalize on his fame before the next slasher comes along, Betty, but we don’t want to oversaturate the market. It isn’t as though Polly is going to share her ill-gotten gains.” 

“You’re kidding.” Betty clenches her fists, but the padded bandages deny her relief. She presses her hand against her throat, which feels tight. “This isn’t right. This can’t be legal! These aren’t ‘artifacts’...that’s our stuff! Our whole lives are going in those boxes! It’s gruesome!”

“Betty,” her mother huffs. “This is about financial stability. We can’t afford to get bogged down in these silly ethical dilemmas. Be reasonable.” Betty is disoriented by how much Alice sounds like her old self, the woman who force fed her Ritalin, who snooped in her bedroom, who trashed her red lipstick for being “unladylike.” That woman was never one to budge. _There’s no use fighting. I’m too tired to fight._

Turning on her heels, Betty yells, “Fine! I’m going out!” stomping to the door and flinging it open. Then, realizing that she isn’t wearing shoes, she runs upstairs to change into something that would make the old Alice grit her teeth. The skirt of the light blue sundress is a dress code violation, and the red high tops barely cover her ice cream socks. She applies sheer red lip gloss that her sister forgot during her last visit.

Betty doesn’t say another word to her mother as she walks out the door. She calls Polly instead, smiling as soon as she hears her sister’s greeting; it’s hard to get her on the phone these days. It soon becomes clear, however, that her sister will be no comfort. “It’s time to let go of the past,” she says, as though her resentment of Alice Cooper isn’t half the reason she skipped town with her boyfriend. “Material things only tie you down,” she says, as though she hasn’t been living off her boyfriend’s trust fund, blood money from his father’s drug empire. “Be reasonable,” she says, and Betty hangs up, pretending she has another call. _Where is the girl who pledged we’d be loyal to each other forever? Where’s the sister who called me her protector? Where’s the girl who insisted that I be the twins’ godmother, even though she knew Cheryl would throw a fit?_

Betty’s next call is to Kevin Keller, who immediately invites her over, so she walks as fast as she can. The Sheriff’s white Colonial has staid gray shutters, a classic red mailbox, and an American flag on the front lawn. When she notices that the Sheriff’s car isn’t in the driveway, she breathes out a sigh of relief. 

Kevin pulls her into a hug as soon as he opens the door.

“Hi, Kev.” He steps back and cocks his head in concern. “Betty,” he says softly. “You look frazzled.”

“It’s nothing serious. Just...my mother.” He stands there looking at her, and she knows he won’t let her off the hook this time. He used to accept a fake-smile and “I’m totally fine.” All of her friends did. But Kevin was the one who followed the police to the scene of the crime, that last night of her old life. He held her limp hand under the shock blanket when the horror was too fresh for words, and, at the station, he forced his way into the women’s restroom to hold her hair back while she threw up. 

“She’s selling our stuff to strangers she met on true crime internet forums. My communion picture will probably end up in the hands of some creepy incel! My parents’ wedding portrait will go to some girl who draws flower crowns on pictures of Ted Bundy.”

Kevin sighs. “Betty, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?” She shakes her head, leaning against his chest for a moment, enjoying the softness of his RHS Wrestling t-shirt. She is too exhausted for tears.

“Come with me,” he says firmly, and she follows him to the kitchen, taking a seat at the wooden barstool. “I’m going upstairs to get some vodka, and then I’m making you a screwdriver. Do you want the mug with the cowboy on it or the one that says, ‘Gone Fishing’?”

“Where do you even hide alcohol in a cop’s house?” _Not that Sheriff Keller is a particularly gifted investigator_ , she thinks.

He winks. “I have this chest full of random books wrapped in a rainbow flag. I’m pretty sure my father thinks it’s where I hide sex toys and gay porn-as though anyone reads magazines anymore. He’s too mortified to rifle through it.”

Laughing, she shakes her head, “Never change, Kevin. But I don’t need a drink. I’ve still got a headache from last night.”

“Betty Cooper! Did you go wild at the Sweetwater party? Ugh, I can’t believe I missed it. I had to finish the essay for that theater internship. Moose sent me eleven incoherent messages around 2 AM. It sounded like a bacchanal.”

“Oh, no,” Betty says softly. “He looked pretty rough when we left. I should’ve checked on him, but I wasn’t sure if he’d want me to, considering…everything. We tried to keep away from the crowd, because I didn’t want to cause any trouble.”

“No.” He puts both hands on her shoulders. “You floated around school like a ghost last semester. You even skipped your graduation! You are not doing this to yourself all summer. Pay attention, ok? You are not responsible for anything Hal Cooper did. You are not obligated to clean up his messes. And if Moose Mason-or anyone else in this town-can’t see that you are as different from your parents as night and day...well, they don’t deserve the privilege of your company.”

She lets out a breath. “Thanks, Kev.” 

“Now, I’m making us coffee because I want to hear about this party, and I don’t want our yawning to slow our gossip.” 

“Hey. I just want to say...you aren’t obligated to clean up my father’s messes, either. I know things with Moose are complicated, but you shouldn’t feel like you _have_ to take care of him. He wasn’t your boyfriend when Midge was alive, and you don’t have to take her place if you don’t want to.” She takes a nervous breath, hoping she hasn’t pushed too far. “That’s all.”

He rubs her back. “I know you’re right. I can’t tell if he wants to be with me because of who I am or if he needs to pretend we have a Great Love so cheating on Midge meant something. It isn’t as though they would’ve been endgame if I was out of the picture.” He sighs, “Oh, the trials of being a small town gay. If only my dating pool was bigger than a puddle.” 

Then, shaking it off, he says, “My love life is a mess, but it’s tomorrow’s problem. It’s you I want to hear about. Any prospects?” It’s the same thing he asks after every party, even after their classmates declared her persona non grata. He’s always believed that she’d find love.

She blushes, remembering the boy she wishes was a prospect, and Kevin notices, of course.

“No. Way. Who is it?”

She covers her face with her hands. She’s hardly had a moment to breathe all morning, let alone contemplate the hour she spent tipsy in Jughead Jones’s company. She presses her fingertips against her eyes. _Jughead Jones._ Even thinking his name gives her a thrill. 

Betty has had a crush on Jughead for years. She isn’t sure when it started. It might have been sophomore year, when her “Mrs. Betty Andrews' fantasy finally died. In middle school, Jughead flinched away from her when they sat together on Archie’s couch. When she brought over sweets, he grabbed a cupcake on the way out the door. Then, somehow, everything changed. Once, he walked with her to Pop’s behind Archie and Veronica, as though he wanted make sure she was ok with her playground love holding hands with her best friend. He complimented her baking and helped her ice cookies for the RHS Athletics Department Fundraiser. (Of course, he ate half a dozen himself.)

By that time, he’d grown into his Serpent jacket and was speeding around town on his classic motorcycle. Watching him lean against that bike in the Pop’s parking lot ignited a Dally Winston/Jim Stark/Jason Dean fetish she didn’t know she had. Watching him strut around town, smirking alongside his crew of teenage gangsters, made her want to pull at her embellished collar. He always looked confident and a bit above it all, rolling his eyes at Reggie’s snide remarks, idly flicking his switchblade if a Bulldog stared him down too long. He’d nod at her at parties, then head to some back room to sell, completely unafraid of getting caught. Sometimes, she thought about approaching him, but she worried that he’d brush her off. Also, she dreaded running afoul of one of his Serpent friends. She overheard that pink-haired girl call her “the prude who needs to loosen her ponytail.” The big one with the neck tattoo leered and said that he’d find use for it.

Jughead never talked to her like that. He was always a gentleman. He listened attentively when she rambled on about the _Blue & Gold _ and her love of Toni Morrison. When she told him that she wanted to be a journalist, he said, “Print journalism’s dead,” but she knew the jab was good-natured. When she pushed at his shoulder, pouting, “Only dormant, Jughead,” he laughed and caught her hand in his. _If only,_ she had thought, blinking up at his gentle blue eyes. _If only._

“Don’t play coy with me, Betty Cooper.” Kevin demands. “Is it Trev Brown?” He taps his chin in an exaggerated thinking pose. “Or are bad boys in this season?” She shifts in her seat and he says, “I knew it! I saw you swooning over Jughead Jones the last time we went to Pop’s. And the last time we went to the Twilight. And that time he was leaning against his motorcycle in the parking lot.”

“Oh, god.” She wrings her hands. “Does he know? Does Archie know? Would Archie tell him?”

He puts his hands up. “Do _not_ spiral. This is Archie. He didn’t notice your middle school crush. I’m still not sure he realizes that Moose is bisexual. He doesn’t have a good eye for romance, and it’s not as though your heart is pounding out of your chest like a cartoon.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” she sighs. “Jughead doesn’t like me like that. I barely see him. We’re friends. Not even friends. We’re friendly.’ 

Archie let her down easy, but she can’t imagine enduring another such romantic humiliation, especially now. She tells herself Jughead wouldn’t laugh at her. He’s never been cruel. But she doubts he’d sweep her up in his arms like he does in her daydreams. After all, she was the Northside Princess. The vanilla milkshake. The “other” Cooper girl. She’d look down at his black Chuck Taylors, with their raw edges and snake sketches,, and then she’d look at her babyish Keds, which her mother made her scrub with a toothbrush. She’d think, _It’s absurd. He looks like he has real adventures. I look like what I am: the girl who never steps out of line._

Then again, she’s crossed the line a few times this year, even before the murders. She exposed Ms. Grundy and sprung her sister from the convent. And then there was that Chuck Clayton episode. _Oh, no._ She puts her hands over her face again. _Why did I tell him about that!?_

“I’ve seen sparks.”

“You said that about me and Archie. I’m not sure if I trust your vision.”

“That was different. We were kids. Archie is too bland for you, anyway. Jughead Jones might be just the adventure you need. Ask V, if you don’t believe me.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

He pauses. “Ok. Look. If I told you last year to chase the Serpent Prince? That I was sure he likes you? You wouldn’t have been able to go for it. Maybe that’s why he never made a move. Your parents would’ve sent you to a convent like Polly, or worse.” He pauses at Betty’s flinch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...What happened to your family is unimaginable. But, in this one way...well. School’s out, your mom is doing her own thing, and you _are_ on a looser leash. You should take advantage.”

“No, Kev. You’re right. I tortured myself for the family name my whole life. Now I’ve got to find the silver lining to my bad reputation.” She bites her lip, fretful. “But I’m not exactly the poster-child for mental health, and most of the town crosses the street when they see me coming. I don’t feel like much of a catch on my best day.”

“Fuck public opinion. Fuck your parents. I hereby declare this the summer of Betty Cooper. Carpe diem! Get some! It’ll be good for your mental health! If he says no, he’s a fool, and I’ll hook you up with someone better. But I really think he’s into you.”

“Where would I even start?” 

“Ok, that might not be my area of expertise. I’ve never made the first move unless you count swiping right on Grind’em. Maybe take a page out of Veronica’s book? Walk up to him at Pop’s?”

“I’m a little too conspicuous for Pop’s these days, Kevin.”

“We said ‘fuck public opinion,’ remember? You’ve always been an icon. Those vicious busybodies are no match for you. Besides, Jones doesn’t like people much. I bet you can catch him in the lull after lunch rush.” He winks. “Or after hours, if you’re lucky.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Betty tells herself it’s only practical to have a 3 PM lunch at Pop’s. _I need to eat, that’s all._ She tells herself, _I’m not looking for him. I’m_ not. _That’s just Kevin’s voice in my head._

Pop waves and smiles, gentle and friendly, as though nothing has changed, and she looks toward the back booth before she can stop herself. There he is, in his grey hat, brow furrowed in concentration as he types. Betty turns right, speed walking to the bathroom to tighten her ponytail and reapply her lip gloss.

_Ok,_ she reminds herself, folding her hands against her chest like a child praying. _There’s no reason to be nervous. He’s your friend. At least, you’re friendly. He_ could _be your friend._ She straightens her shoulders, and walks down the aisle, head held high. _Fake it till you make it. Fuck public opinion. This is the summer of Betty Cooper._

Jughead looks up and catches her eyes, smiling at her, showing off his perfect white teeth. She adds a skip to her step and stops at his booth, taking a deep breath. She feels like her body is buzzing.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

For an awful moment, he stares blankly at her. Then he jolts. “Of course not,” he says, motioning towards the opposite seat. 

His jacket is off, and he’s wearing a grey t-shirt with an S on the front. She wonders where he gets them; he seems to have a never-ending supply. She wishes she was sitting on his side of the booth so she could stroke the spot where his Serpent tattoo peeks out from under his sleeve. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. “It looked like you were having a wild night.”

 _Oh, no. Does he think that I’m a lush?_ “Not so wild. I got a little tipsy, but I went home not long after you left. I’m not one for all that debauchery, especially with so many football players nearby.”

“Me neither.”

There’s a beat of silence."

“So...what are you writing these days?”

At that moment, the waitress stops at their booth. She’s a middle-aged redhead whose name Betty doesn’t know, and her eyes flicker frantically between them like she can’t decide which one to gawk at. Initially, it stings, but then Betty glances at Jughead, and his mocking expression makes her bite back a laugh. He tilts his head in the waitress’s direction and rolls his eyes.

Betty straightens her posture and says primly, “A turkey club, please. Hold the bacon. And an Arnold Palmer.”

“Two cheeseburgers, a side of curly fries, and a vanilla milkshake, please.”

Jughead clears his throat. “You asked about my writing?” She nods enthusiastically and he says, “Well, I’ve been chipping away at a couple of nonfiction articles, but they’re on pause. Right now, I’m actually working on a novel.”

“That’s so cool! What’s it about? Genre? Influences?”

He smiles at her with something that might be affection. “It’s the story of a town. A small town. I haven’t ironed out the kinks of the mystery yet. Mostly it’s about the people. Group psychology, coming-of-age, horror. Us vs. them. Good vs. evil. What we show the world and what we hide.” 

“That sounds compelling, Jug! I’d love to read it when you’re ready.”

He coughs and nods awkwardly, rushing on. “Yeah, so. Influences. I’d say...Capote, mostly. Shirley Jackson. Algren. There’s even some David Lynch in there.”

“Of course you’d incorporate some classic cinema! Any Lynch on the schedule for the Twilight this summer?”

“I haven’t finished it yet.” He pauses, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Would you want to take a look at the choices? You’ve always had good taste.”

Betty smiles. “Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I’d love that.”

His shoulders relax. “Nice. Good. Yeah.

He tilts the laptop in her direction, and they debate their options while they eat: “Is nostalgia a bigger draw than something brand new? The best thing about Pop’s is that his food always tastes the same. People are comforted by reliable things.” and “Is it better to organize the movies by theme or by actor?” She teases him for preferring such obscure ( _pretentious_ ) art films, wishing she could lean forward and tap his arm. He makes fun of her soft spot for Technicolor musicals. They discover a shared love of noir and monster movies, and he smiles, slowly, when she sucks at her straw and says, “I’m all about the beast within.”

When Jughead packs up his laptop at the end of their meal, she frets, _Why is it so hard to get boys to like me?_

The walk to the door feels like a gauntlet, because the diner has started filling with early birds. At the counter, Mrs. Morris clutches her towheaded toddler to her chest as though Jughead is feral. Mr. Miller watches Betty over a pile of mashed potatoes, and there is so much pity on his wrinkled face that she cannot even wave to him. She has to look away.

Jughead puts his hands in his pockets and asks, “Are you heading home?”

“Yeah.” She tries to sound breezy. “Why?”

“I’ve got my Dad’s truck, if you need a ride.”

Betty nods emphatically, and Jughead opens the car door, taking her hand to steady her as she climbs into the truck. She hears Veronica’s voice in her head. _Swoon!_

Once he’s settled in the driver’s seat, she adjusts her skirt. _Did he just look at my legs?_ He turns the key, and Betty gasps when the radio blares, “Everybody wants a place to rest,” loud enough to raise the dead. 

“Dad has a thing for Springsteen,” he says, sheepish, fumbling to lower the volume.

“It’s Fred’s favorite, too.” He parks in front of her house, and, though he’s obviously spotted the graffiti on the door, he is making a valiant effort to ignore it. She wishes she could kiss him. “Hey, don’t you usually ride a motorcycle?”

“She’s a little off. I figured it couldn’t hurt to give her a break this weekend.”

“Oh, no! Have you gone to Fairlane’s?”

He shakes his head, “Trying to avoid that humiliation as long as possible. Sweet Pea and Fangs always rib me for being such a lousy mechanic.”

“You know...” Betty says slowly. “I might be able to help. If you want.”

He outright beams at her. “Yes. Absolutely. If it isn’t too much trouble?” 

“Of course not!” She grins as he plugs in his number. “I told you I love tinkering with engines!”

Betty looks up at the bright blue sky, feeling a wild surge of hope. When he drives away, she unlocks her phone, and adds a blue heart after his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The antlers are the Hannibal reference. Thanks for reading! I'm open to constructive criticism, and if there's something particularly you'd like to know, I can try to add it to the plot!


	3. im a weirdo

Jughead is excruciatingly aware of Betty’s house next door. He hasn’t called her yet. Between shifts at the Twilight, a supply run to Centerville, and unloading the liquor shipment at the bar, his days have been too packed for a bike checkup. He couldn’t figure out how to start a conversation about something else, so, afraid of sounding awkward, he said nothing at all.

“Are you sure you don’t want a beer, Jug?” Archie asks, standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“No, thanks,” Jughead replies. “I’m still recovering from Thursday night with Fangs. He had some sort of girl trouble, and, thanks to his flip cup obsession, I ended up crashing in the Wyrm’s basement to make sure he didn’t die.”

“Isn’t that, like, your worst nightmare?” Archie sets a root beer in front of him, and Jughead reflects on what a gift it is to have a friend who knows his taste.

“Oh, a game of flip cup, a root canal, and 7th grade gym class. That’s what the devil has waiting for me when I go to hell.” If history serves, he’ll be trailing him to bars for at least a week before Fangs comes to him for advice. Somehow, Jughead is more romantically competent than Fangs is-which is depressing, considering he has hardly dated and can’t compose a text to a pretty girl. 

“I’m glad I got to see you before I leave. It sucks we won’t get to hang out much. But hey, I’ll be here for a week in August. We should plan a camping trip.”

Jughead smiles. “Sure, that sounds great.”

Neither mention that it’s not a social visit. Archie is only coming back to pack for college, because Archie got a football scholarship to State.

Jughead is not going to college. He’ll be stuck in Riverdale, waving at the Andrews’ truck as it drives away. Toni’s been trying to cheer him up about it, but her pep talks are sledgehammers. “Think of this as your gap year,” she said, as though he’s a trust fund baby planning a tour of the Riviera. “You’ve got enough talent to win your own scholarship,” she said, “so why didn’t you finish the app essay?” “You act like the Southside’s a tar pit, but you aren’t doing anything to pull yourself out,” she said. Jughead will never admit it, especially to this particular friend, whose ambition rivals Julius Caesar’s, but his reason is simple: hope is dangerous. It leads only to disappointment. Freedom scares him about as much as being trapped.

“I’ll miss you, man,” Archie says earnestly, looking Normal Rockwell-wholesome, and Jughead remembers him at ten years old, naming him blood brother. Jughead feels a swell of affection for his friend-and fury at the teacher who took advantage of his open heart. Veronica has shown Archie what a girlfriend is supposed to be, but she can’t erase the damage left by his rapist, and Jughead’s not sorry that woman is dead. He’s sorry that Archie is grieving her, though. He wishes there was a way that he could validate that grief without feeling like he’s validating that monster. 

“Hey, are you doing okay? You know, with everything?”

“I’m getting there. I just need to get out of my head. My mom’s house is on the lake, so I’ll go swimming a lot. It’ll be fun to explore with Ronnie.” Jughead nods approvingly. 

“The only thing is,” Archie continues, “I’m kind of worried about Betty. Me and Veronica will be gone for a long time. I told Betty that she should come with us, and Veronica even offered to pay, but Betty said that she didn’t want to leave her mom. Her mom’s pretty crazy, though? So I don’t get it. Anyway, Betty’ll be by herself.” He sets his beer on the scarred wooden table, leaving a ring to match the other dozen. “It would be cool if you could watch out for her. If you see her around.” 

“Of course, Arch. No problem.” He shifts uncomfortably, wondering whether Archie found out about their not-date at Pop’s. _What would he think if he knew how I feel about her?_ Archie loves him, of that he has no doubt, but he is wary of the Serpents. _Would he say a gang member is bad news, not boyfriend material?_

Jughead sets aside those fears. They'll keep, after all. “Hey, do you want to order delivery?” 

After two hours of pizza and video games, he is about as relaxed as he ever gets. Then the doorbell rings, and he jolts to attention. _Is it Betty?_ he wonders.

It’s Veronica Lodge, dressed to the nines in a plaid sheath dress and heels. Jughead takes her arrival as his cue to leave. When she spots the mess in the kitchen, she declares, “Archiekins, you know I can’t drink these cheap sports drinks. I’m going downstairs for my emergency limonata.” _She’s giving us time alone to say goodbye_ , he realizes with reluctant fondness. 

On the doorstep, Archie repeats, “You have to come visit someday, ok? And be careful when I’m gone.” He pats his shoulder. “Stay out of trouble.”

“You, too, Archie. Let yourself have fun. You deserve good things. Don’t forget that.”

He barely makes it to the sidewalk before being accosted. 

“I know about you,” Veronica says, pointing a finger at his chest.

“What does that mean?” She huffs, tossing her shiny black hair and scowling. “Lodge, I can't read your mind.”

“It _means_ ,” she says, squinting at him, “that you’d better treat my B right. Betty Cooper deserves all the kindness and chivalry in the world. Do _not_ disappoint me, Forsythe Pendleton Jones. You will _not_ like the consequences.” She strides to the door, waving at him from the front step. “Oh, and, Torombolo: have a great summer!”

Jughead would be offended by the warning, except he'd probably do the same for his friends, if the occasion called for it. _What did Betty tell her about me? Was Archie matchmaking? And how dare that ginger traitor tell his girlfriend my legal name?_

At the end of the block, he climbs into his father’s truck, takes a deep breath, and texts Betty. “Hey, hope you had a nice week. I’ve been so swamped. Still up for a hangout/bike check up? Sunday is my day off.”

As soon as it’s marked sent, he deletes the thread and places his phone face down on the seat. He keeps his eyes on the car ahead, avoiding the Cooper house, and turns on the radio; FP’s on a Motörhead kick, this time, and it's an effective distraction.

Later, when he is sprawled on the couch with his laptop, the phone buzzes next to him. It’s Betty. "I’m free after noon? Can’t wait!” 

———————————————————---------------------------------------------------------------------

Jughead flicks his silver lighter on and off and on and off. He's waiting at the bend in Grove Street, the spot that marks the unofficial divide between the Northside and the South.

When Betty rounds the corner, backlit by the sun like an angel in blue overalls, he abandons his plan to keep it cool. He really can’t control his smile muscles. But she’s smiling back, and when she stops in front of him, she pulls something shiny out of her giant front pocket. He reaches out, intending to carry her tool box for her, but she shakes her head and says, “This first.” 

Jughead raises an inquiring brow, and she motions for him to unwrap what he discovers is a snickerdoodle cookie. When he meets her gaze, she smiles shyly. “I remembered that you liked them the last time I baked them.” He’s shocked and flattered; that last time was two years ago. 

Taking a bite, Jughead hums happily. “Delicious. You didn’t have to. You’re already doing me a favor by coming all the way out here.” 

“I wanted to. And it isn’t that far.”

In miles, the distance is miniscule, but in every other way, the two sides of town are world’s apart. Jughead doesn’t say so. Instead, he takes her tool box, carrying it in his left hand in the unlikely event that she wants to hold his right. The opportunity comes when he spots a puddle in their path, and he grabs her hand to guide her around it.

“Thank you, Jug. I don’t mind getting a little dirty, though.” Betty giggles, pointing at her sturdy lace-up work boots. Patches of brown nubuck are darkened by engine grease. Even so, she doesn’t move away from him, bumping her shoulder against his arm as they continue down the block. 

Jughead is becoming increasingly self-conscious as they walk, having never noticed how much litter is on this street before. The neighborhood looks more decrepit with each step: the dented payphone covered in snake stickers, the bodega’s sagging awning, the tiny playground with the collapsed swing. They pass the Fogarty’s yard, where a chair has toppled onto the dying grass, and in his head he hears every nasty word a Bulldog ever said about the Southside. 

Betty, meanwhile, is eyeing the pink sneakers dangling from the power line with interest. She points out the church's dainty steeple. She admires the ouroboros mural on the handball court, jaw dropping when he informs her Toni painted it freshman year.

There aren’t many people out on Sunday morning, but everyone who passes by greets them, even if only with a nod. Bikers of all ages, old ladies pushing laundry carts, harried mothers in pajamas, hoisting toddlers on their hips. He’s saluted through the window by a cook at the chicken spot, and a girl in a tight green tank blows him a kiss from the taco truck.

“You’re popular,” Betty remarks, adjusting her red bandana headband and patting her bun.

He shakes his head. “Everyone knows my dad around here.” 

They turn down a quieter street, and he lets out a sigh of relief; of course, that's when he hears Joaquin de Santos shouting his name. _Can’t he see that I’m occupied?_

“Give me a second, will you?” Jughead asks, jogging towards the older boy.

“What is it, Joaquin?” Jughead keeps Betty in his line of sight, thankful that no one’s loitering outside of the pizza place to leer at her.

Joaquin doesn’t answer right away, his attention caught first by the blonde, then by the yellow tool box and its faded unicorn stickers. “I didn’t know you’d gotten a girl, Jones. Is that the sophomore who’s always bouncing around after you?”

“No,’ Jughead snaps. “And if you ever see me with Cricket O’Dell, rescue me, I beg you. I say hello to her twice, she starts calling me her Sweet Babboo.” Joaquin bursts into knee-slapping laughter. “I’ve got places to be, Joaquin. Tell me what you need me for.”

“Your dad asked me to sniff around the Sheriff’s office, but I haven't heard from him in awhile. Do you want reports?”

Sighing, Jughead shakes his head. They both know his father is most likely on a bender. Jughead will never understand why the Serpents allow him to be their leader, since the man isn’t responsible enough to handle fatherhood or marriage, let alone running a gang. But when Jughead was eight, FP went to prison. Two years later, he strolled into the Whyte Wyrm with criminal connections and the credibility that comes from keeping his mouth shut, even though it meant an extra year inside. Jughead supposes this went a long way to inspiring loyalty. Still, the Serpents could do better, and Jughead resents having to pick up the slack when his father is off “god-knows-where-doing-god-knows-what,” in the words of Thomas Topaz.

“I think he’s overreacting, to be honest. After spending all winter doing actual detective work, they probably plan on lounging around all summer eating donuts. That's what I'd want to do. I’d let it be. We’ll worry about the cops when they start patrolling again. Ask my dad when he comes back-or Toni, but, please, if you’re snooping around...be careful.”

“Got it. And what about Fangs?” Joaquin runs his hand through his hair, looking like a 90’s teenage heartthrob, and Jughead glances at Betty to see if she’s noticed. Her attention is fixed on her phone. “He’s still off the rails.”

“He’ll settle. One of us should check the Wyrm every night or two, make sure he doesn’t hit on anybody’s wife.”

Joaquin nods, then claps Jughead’s back. “Back to it, loverboy,” he laughs, puckering his lips.

“Everything ok?” Betty asks when Jughead returns. He’s careful to keep his face impassive, but she recognizes stress. _How much should I admit?_ He decides to say nothing.

When they reach the deserted lot where he parked his bike, Betty's brows are still furrowed. “You can tell me about this stuff, you know?”’ She touches his arm, and her gaze is so earnest that he looks away.

Then he looks back at her and says, “You said I was popular. That’s true, in a way. The Serpents are my family, and they’ve always had my back. If I’d grown up on the Northside, I probably would’ve been the kid who gets stuffed in lockers, but here, no one messes with me unless they want to suffer later. I’m grateful. I don’t want to sound ungrateful.” 

He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his hair. “But I don’t know if you noticed: inside, I'm not much like them. I’m kind of a weirdo.” He gestures to the hat in his hand. “Have you ever seen me without this hat on? That’s weird. I fit in here, but...I don’t always want to fit in.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “That’s fair. It can be stifling when everyone around you wants you to look or act or feel a certain way.” She smiles ruefully, “I don’t know if you remember what I was like before everything happened. But I tried really hard to make myself into someone I’m realizing that I never was. We’re 18. High school is over. We get to decide who we want to become.” She shrugs. “Or at least, that’s what my friend Kevin keeps telling me.”

“That’s easy to say,” he snaps. “Not easy to do, when you’re stuck in the same old town with the same old friends.” He sucks in a breath, wishing that he didn’t sound so bitter. Wishing that he didn’t _feel_ so bitter.

Betty’s eyes are soft. “You know, Jug, I’m not going to college either.” He is careful not to show how shocked he is, because he recognizes the well of pain beneath her calm veneer. He wonders what it looks like. He wonders how much it resembles his.

“Maybe we can help each other. Try new things?”

Jughead is sure his smile looks ridiculous, but he can’t bring himself to care. “I’d love that.”

“Now let’s check in on your baby,” she says brightly, crouching, and he sets the tool box on the ground next to her. He doesn’t want to ogle like some creep, but the view is so appealing. She's hot, of course, and he definitely wants to see what's under those layers. He wants to sleep with her, but he also wants to _sleep_ with her, to trace the line of her perfect profile on the pillow next to his. It's a lot to handle for someone whose interest in girls has up until now been almost nonexistent. Jughead sighs, then winces at how lovesick he sounds. To his relief, she doesn’t notice.

It takes Betty five minutes to diagnose the problem and one to fix it. He covers his face with his hands, but the embarrassment is worth, because she breaks out into giggles.

When he reaches to help her up, she moves away, showing him her dirty hands. He wouldn’t mind getting dirty, but, in deference to her discomfort, he invites her to his place to wash up. “Don’t worry,” he assures her as they approach Sunnyside. “I think my dad’s out of town, so we won’t have to deal with him.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she says, wryly. “He can’t be worse than my father.” There’s a beat of silence. She squeezes her eyes shut and he laughs, guiding her up the stairs and into the trailer. He’s been taking his cues from Archie and Veronica, who talk in euphemisms or don’t mention the murders at all. Also, he's reluctant to reveal his intense interest in the case. Now he wonders whether his hesitation is bordering on patronizing. _It’s a huge part of her life. If she wants to be open about it, why not encourage her to talk?_

Jughead pats himself on the back for remembering to straighten up after last night’s shift, but, even at its cleanest, the trailer is dreary. The brown couch is worn to the netting in places, and the leg of the recliner is wrapped in duct tape. There are no family photos on display; Jughead hid them after hearing his father’s drunken ranting about his absent wife. There’s a Big Mouth Billy Bass on the wall, and a Wade Boggs baseball card tacked up beside it; FP swears it is good luck, all evidence to the contrary. The coat rack where he hangs his jacket resembles a slithering snake.

Fluffing the red velour pillow, Jughead debates whether to sit down. Betty makes the decision for him, politely requesting a glass of water, and he gestures towards the plastic barstool. He opens a bag of potato chips while she takes a seat. 

“So what did you get up to this week?” she asks. He searches her face. _Is she angry that I didn’t call?_

Jughead tells her that he's showing the new Marvel blockbuster at the Twilight-under duress, of course. (“Scorsese was right,” he declares, “when he said those movies are not cinema.”) He describes the flip cup match, playing up his own clumsiness to amuse her, and Sweet Pea serenading the boys with a Halsey song. SP swore that his sister was a fan, and that's how he knew the words; when Fangs pointed out she only listens to metal, he was pelted with pretzels for his honesty. The next morning, Jug found a Cheeto in the brim of his hat.

Over the course of the conversation, Jughead has abandoned his chips and scooted his stool closer to hers. His hand is on her leg, and she’s idly playing with his fingers as she laughs, recounting the highlights of her own week: pizza at Archie’s and a mani-pedi with Veronica. (“I keep telling her they’ll just get ruined, since I'm working on cars,” she says, showing off her chipped pink nails, “but she won’t let me miss an appointment.”) Betty says she spends a lot of time in the backyard, reading or chatting with Fred, and proudly announces that the delphiniums are blooming. Her mother brought down her old record collection, too, so Betty’s been listening to The Cranberries on repeat.

At this point, Jughead's arm is around her shoulder, and he's running his fingers along the ruffled edge of her purple shirt. He's about to suggest they move to the couch when the door swings open. _As usual, Dad,_ he thinks sourly. _Impeccable timing._

“Hey, Jug,” his father says, raising a questioning eyebrow in Betty’s direction. Betty immediately stands, all cheerleader grace, to introduce herself. She smiles sweetly and calls his father “Mr. Jones,” and Jughead ducks his head to hide his fond expression. 

“She came by to check my bike,” Jughead explains. Betty adds, “I’m working at Fairlane’s this summer.” Jughead is relieved to notice that his dad looks no worse for wear. His red flannel and jeans are wrinkled but free of blood, and his skin is tan, not jaundiced.

FP is staring at Betty, rubbing his stubbled chin, and Jughead silently wills him to be tactful for once in his life. _Do not say a word about the Black Hood._ “Betty Cooper,” he says slowly. Jughead notices that Betty’s fist start to clench and glares harder at his father.

But FP doesn’t mention Hal Cooper. Instead, he sucks his teeth and asks, “Alice’s kid?” When Betty nods, he smirks. “Tell her FP says hello.” 

Jughead and Betty share a puzzled look, and then Jughead ushers her outside with a hand on her lower back. “I’m going to walk Betty home, Dad.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Betty says as they stand beneath the Sunnyside Trailer Park sign. “If you’d rather hang out with your dad or…your other friends.” 

He laughs. “That is the last thing I want to do.” Gently touching her fist, he assures her, “Betty, there’s absolutely nothing I’d rather do than walk with you.” She nods slowly, shy smile brightening into something giddy. Her beauty is so pure that it almost makes him dizzy. 

They walk north. Jughead keeps hold of her hand all the way to her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think! <3


	4. pink perfection

Veronica loops her arm around Betty’s and points at the mannequin in the shop window. “That’s so you, B!” She drags her through the door before Betty can catch a glimpse.

“V, please. I don’t want any more clothes.” 

Veronica frowns in confusion, as though Betty’s just announced that she prefers the Hardy Boys to Nancy Drew. Then she laughs and waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t be silly! This is the summer of Betty Cooper, remember? New season, new you, new wardrobe.”

 _It_ is _pretty,_ Betty thinks when she sees the dress. _And that pink_ is _a nice color on me._ It’s less daring than the bikini in her shopping bag-Betty campaigned unsuccessfully for a one-piece, but it’s skirting the edges of her comfort zone: it’s sleeveless and has a plunging neckline.

Veronica is humming thoughtfully in front of a glass case of jewelry, so Betty rushes to intervene before she starts buying diamonds. 

“You always pick out what I didn’t know I wanted, V. The cut might be a little much for me-” Veronica opens her mouth to object, “-but if I keep the accessories simple, I’ll feel comfortable. My gold studs? The gold sandals I wore to Kevin's graduation dinner?” 

“You’ll be the belle of Riverdale. Be sure to send me photos when you wear it out dancing with Kevin.” She smiles coyly. “Or perhaps on a date with your new beau?”

Betty blushes. “He’s not my beau.” 

“Not _yet,_ he isn’t, but he will be. My nose for romance is as refined as my nose for fragrance-and while designing my signature scent, Francois Robert told me I had the makings of a master perfumer.”

“Didn’t you call Jughead a ‘weedy degenerate who should be begging to breathe my air’? That was last week, wasn’t it?” Betty had been disappointed that Jughead hadn’t called after they met at Pop’s. Then she was disappointed in herself for being disappointed, then disappointed in Kevin for getting her hopes up. Eventually, she worked herself into such a state that she spilled all to Archie and Veronica. Veronica responded with a blistering invective against pick-up-artists, fuckboys, power struggles in romance, and the idea of girlfriends as trophies, her pacing so aggressive that Betty worried her stilettos would damage the floor.

Archie, however, was unruffled, and once Veronica had slowed to a stop, he said, “Jug has like, two and a half jobs. He might not have had time.” When Veronica snapped that he ought to have made time, Archie added, “He’s weird with girls, too. He’s weird all around, actually. Not many people get that. I don’t think he’s ever had a girlfriend. I think he might be shy?”

This sounded impossible to Betty. She'd seen girls swarming him at parties. He brushed them all off, even the ones as beautiful as Cheryl or Josie or V. He must have high standards.

It sounds even more impossible now that she’s walked with him through the Southside. When she first felt the stares, she’d thought that she was the one drawing attention; she was surprised to discover that it was Jughead they were watching. To Northsiders, he’s bad news, but Southsiders treat him like a favorite son. 

Once girls started blowing him kisses, however, she soured. She is not too proud to admit, if only to herself, that she wants him to see her in this dress and think, “Betty Cooper has no competition.”

“I may have been too hasty,” Veronica admits. “I talked to Archie, and I’ve decided to reserve judgement. If he hurts you, of course, I’ll charter the jet and make him pay for it, so keep me updated. And if you start to doubt yourself, please remember that every boy, everywhere, should be begging to breathe your air!”

Betty laughs. “Thank you. And thank you for all the rest, too,” she says, gesturing at the shopping bags. 

“But V, I think we should talk about the presents.”

“What’s there to say?” Veronica asks airily. “You’re my bestie. I want you to look and feel your best.” 

“I don’t need gifts for that,” Betty says firmly.

“It’s bad enough that you refuse to accept the vacation to Chicago. The least you can do is let me buy you a new dress.”

“I appreciate the offer, Veronica, I do, but I really need to stay with my mother this summer.” Veronica makes a moue of distaste. “It’s not your fault that your parents bought _The Register_.”

Veronica scowls. "It is an outrage! How dare they diversify their assets with your family business without having the decency to sway the coverage in your favor! They owe you compensation!”

Betty laughs. “That’s journalism, Veronica. I wouldn’t want them to publish some puff piece on the Coopers after what my father did. In a way, I’m glad they ousted Mom, because she wasn’t exactly an unbiased writer.” 

“B,” Veronica says softly. “Some of those articles are biased.”

Betty shrugs, trying her best to sound unaffected. “Sure, it isn’t fair that they talk about my life like it’s pulp fiction, but that’s not your parents' fault either. As my mother always said, 'Print journalism is dying, and sensationalism sells.' Besides, even if your parents are behind those articles, that's not your fault. Isn’t that what you keep telling me? That I wasn’t to blame for what my parents did?”

Veronica sighs. “What your parents did isn’t paying for your Celine coat and dinner at Cipriani. That’s the difference.” Betty hasn’t told her yet about her mother’s side hustle hawking Black Hood memorabilia, hoping Kevin would do it for her. Veronica's reaction to Alice Cooper's latest act of derangement will be explosive, and Betty wants a quiet afternoon.

“All I ask is that you dial it down.” 

“Alright, Betty,” she sighs. Then she perks up. “But wait! Let’s meet Archie at High’s Hardware Store. We can pick out more bandanas. It could be your work trademark, like your iconic ponytail was at school! When Archie dragged me there for some drill thing, I noticed they come in a bunch of cute colors.” Betty laughs, shakes her head, and admits she’s been bested.

She spends the rest of the afternoon joking around with Archie while Veronica holds various fabrics up to her face. “I’ve found the perfect blue!” she says, smiling with affection, and Betty understands that the guilt is not Veronica's primary motive. She says, “Love you, V.” and Veronica says, “I love you,” back.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Betty chooses the green headband for her first day of work. She tells herself not to be nervous. She’s known Mr. Fairlane for most of her life; he sold her father car parts and consulted on repairs, patiently answering her questions when she trailed after them like a puppy. In fact, once she came along, he started stocking lollipops at the front desk.

A couple of weeks after her father's arrest, Mr. Fairlane approached her in the park. He was walking his Scottie, Packard, and she was sitting on a bench, staring at the trees. She’d avoided eye contact, scratching the dog behind the ear and smiling at his wagging tail. That was her first smile of the day. Mr. Fairlane did not press her, saying only, “Betty, I’m real sorry. If you need anything, you know where I’ll be.”

At first, she couldn’t imagine ever walking into Fairlane’s Garage again. She assumed it would remind her too strongly of her father. It turned out that everything reminds her of her father. The river where he taught her to ice skate. The diner where they shared banana splits. The lot behind the bottle factory where she learned to drive. He haunts the high school stage, the music teacher’s cottage, the snowy woods, the hospital. He haunts the Station, the Sheriff’s car, her house. The Murder House, where he ruffled her hair and tied her shoelaces and snuck her cookies and strangled her mother. She sees him in the mirror: her green eyes are his eyes, her blonde hair is his hair, the softness of her face is his. Sometimes, when it’s really quiet, she can hear him say, “I don’t want to have to kill you,” and she has to force herself to remember that he was telling a lie. 

It took weeks for her to understand that there is no protecting herself from these memories. Avoidance will not erase them. Her only hope is to find a way to carry them so she doesn’t spoil the happiness that she’s known, that she may know again. It was then that she made her way to the garage in her interview suit, telling herself, _Exposure therapy._

Mr. Fairlane welcomes her into his office with a smile. “First day jitters?” he asks.

“No, sir,” she replies. 

“Today, you’ll be shadowing SP, one of my best. Let me go tell him you’re here.” Betty watches through the window as her new boss approaches a tall man with absurdly broad shoulders. Betty recognizes him as Jughead’s Serpent friend from his size alone. Their voices are muffled, but what she can hear doesn’t sound promising: “babysitter,” “Barbie.” Mr. Fairlane pats the man on the back and beckons her over. SP shakes her hand roughly then jerks his head toward the lot. His snake tattoo is covered by the collar of his blue coveralls.

Betty follows him, attempting small talk, but the friendlier she is, the more reserved he becomes. 

“What made you want to work here?”

“Money.”

“Where did you grow up? 

“You wouldn’t know it, Princess.” 

“What do you like to do outside of work?” 

“Hang.”

 _Fine_ , she pouts silently. _I didn’t come here to make friends. All that matters is that my boss likes me._

Once he’s shown her the layout, he tells her to pull up a stool, then wastes the next ten minutes mansplaining oil changes and tire rotations. Mr. Fairlane stops in the doorway to listen, and Betty wonders why he hasn't intervened. When his lips quirk in amusement, she understands: He’s waiting for her to pull a Mona Lisa Vito. Betty takes a deep breath, ready to release a deluge of mechanical trivia, when SP catches her eye. He groans. 

“You knew all of this already, don’t you?”

“Yup.” Her smile is smug. “I was hired for a reason.”

“Well, if you know the drill, then I’ll check your taste. Manual or automatic?”

“Automatic.”

“Carburetor or fuel injection?”

“Carburetor.” 

“Restomod or restoration?”

“Restoration.”

He rolls his eyes. “I should’ve guessed. We’ll talk more about that later. So what do you drive?”

She freezes. “Oh, I don’t have a car." He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Betty helped restore a ‘57 Ford Thunderbird convertible,” her boss interjects. “Beautiful machine: automatic transmission, Holley 4-barrel carburetor, supercharged F-code 312/300-hp V8 engine. The kid knows her stuff.” Betty smiles at him in thanks.

At the end of the day, she decides, _Not so bad for a first day._ She’s heartened by the fact that she and SP have established a tentative peace, even if he hasn't smiled yet. She’s relieved that it was so easy to return to her gearhead roots.

When she exits the garage, a group of Serpents is smoking beside the stop sign. SP is at the center, and lurking at the fringes is Jughead Jones. When he spots her, he loses his bored expression, grinning, slowly, as Betty approaches with a spring in her step.

“I was hoping for a ride,” she says, a little shocked by her own boldness. 

“Then it’s lucky I came prepared.” A black helmet etched with a crown is on the seat of his motorcycle. A black helmet adorned with a snake is strapped to the backrest. He gestures at her white t-shirt and jeans, adding, “So did you.”

“You brought a helmet just for me?” she breathes, looking up at him through her lashes, immediately wishing she could take the words back. _He probably got it for some hot girl with a tongue ring and Nosferatu back tattoo._

“Of course,” Jughead grins boyishly. “Do you like it? I can pick you up something white or green the next time I’m at the Wyrm. Sweet Pea texted me about some Northside blonde angling for his job, so I figured I’d take a chance and visit.” 

As soon as his friends notice that he’s wandered off, they erupt in catcalls, whistling and hooting. They stop when Jughead makes an imperious motion and shoots them a glare that matches hers.

“ _That’s_ Sweet Pea? Well,” she says indignantly, “tell him I’m not after his job. There’s room enough for the both of us! Or there would be, if his bad mood didn’t take up so much space.”

Jughead laughs. “Don’t give Sweets a second thought. He’s surly, but he’ll warm up to you in no time. It’s impossible not to.” Before she’s had a chance to process that, he asks, “Do you have a destination in mind?”

Betty blushes when Jughead adjusts her hair so that he can put on her helmet, buckling the chinstrap and checking the fit. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I have an idea.”

Betty has never ridden a motorcycle before, and it’s a bit like having a crush: anxiety and alertness, joy and exhilaration. She clutches him so tightly that she worries about bruising, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and then all thoughts leave her head, and she’s a body holding another body, braced against the wind, speeding towards the afternoon sun. 

Jughead comes to a stop at the edge of the river, but they are far from the site of the graduation party. This side of the bank borders a clearing spotted with tiny white flowers. After Jughead helps her dismount and unbuckles her helmet, he pulls a thin grey blanket from his carrier bag. 

He rubs the back of his neck. “You said you liked to garden, so...I thought this would be a nice spot to hang out.” 

“It’s perfect!” She hops in excitement. Her smile must be ridiculous, but she isn't embarrassed. She feels no doubt. _He likes me. He really, really does._

Jughead sprawls on the blanket, picking at the grass, and she sits cross-legged next to him. “Thanks for bringing me here. It’s just what I needed.”

“Rough first day?”

“No, actually,” she replies with some surprise. “Rough start, but it got better.”

“I assumed so, once Sweet Pea’s texts dwindled.”

She frowns. “He really hates me, huh.” 

“Nah.” Jughead touches her knee. “He’s suspicious of new people, especially Northsiders. Also, he’s working through a ton of toxic masculinity shit, so, even when he means well, he can be clumsy with girls. Part and parcel of growing up in a biker gang.”

“I noticed,” she says dryly. “And yet you seem pretty enlightened.”

“Toni never lets me step out of line,” he laughs, “and thank God for it. In high school, Sweet Pea, Fangs and the rest were brawlers, and Joaquin was on the sidelines, egging them on. Toni and I were the nerds holed up in the _Red and Black_ office.” He pauses. “Don’t tell her I said that.” 

“I wish we’d spent more time together when we were in school,” Betty says wistfully. “Imagine if we’d gotten to work on an article together. I loved my staff, don’t get me wrong-Kevin’s gossip column was a hit, Trev was a dream as a sports reporter, and Ethel’s op-eds were always thoughtful. But they weren’t interested in investigative journalism, and it was difficult to cover hard-hitting stories alone.” She debates telling him about solving the mystery of their music teacher-rapist-identity thief Geraldine Grundy, then decides to table it. _No mention of murder victims spoiling my date._

Jughead laughs. “I could’ve been your boy Friday.”

“I always wanted to write an expose on the Sisters of Quiet Mercy.”

“The convent?”

“More like prison, torturing neglected teenagers.”

“I think that’s juvie,” he says, and she winces.

“Ok, not quite the same as a prison, but. They’re definitely incarcerated. My parents sent my sister there when she got pregnant. They kept insisting she was there for the baby’s own good, but the nuns forbid prenatal care. They forced her to eat bread and water and scrub floors with a toothbrush, punishment for being a 'jezebel'.”

“That’s twisted. What is this, 1932?”

“Right? I’m only glad that I came back from my internship early and found the record of payment on Mom’s desk. It was hard enough for Cheryl, Jason, and I to spring her. Who knows what would’ve happened if my parents had had more time to cover their tracks?”

Jughead leans forward in interest. “You orchestrated a jailbreak by yourselves?”

“Yup,” Betty answers proudly. “Veronica and I did recon to find Polly’s window. She wore a catsuit, if you can imagine it.” 

Jughead laughs. “Very Veronica.”

“The Blossoms and I snuck in, Jason gave me a boost, and I smashed the window. Thank God there weren’t any bars. I guess they didn’t expect a pregnant girl to outrun those big guards.”

“They didn’t chase you?”

“They didn’t have a chance. I’ve never been so grateful for the Blossom twins. Jason helped Polly climb down and carried her, and Cheryl threw an extravagant fit to distract the guards.” 

“Say what you will about the Blossoms,” Jughead admits, “-and I could write an ode to their villainy, but they do have a talent for making a scene.”

“Plus, they drive very fast sport cars. In the end, the only damages were a broken window and some cuts on my hand. I never got to write the story though, with everything that happened later.”

“We could do it together,” Jughead suggests. “A side project. I know we don’t have the school newspaper anymore, but we could start a blog or something.”

Betty claps her hands in delight. “Juggie, that’s genius! We could even pitch it to papers! We have to do it!”

He shakes her hand, stern and businesslike. “Partners,” he says, but can’t keep up the serious expression. He grins, and she’s as exhilarated as she was on the back of his motorcycle.

“Did you break any fun stories at the _Red & Black _?”

“None we could print,” Jughead says sourly. “Everything on the Southside runs up against gang business, and the peace is too tenuous to risk for journalistic integrity-at least, that’s what Toni keeps telling me. If I had my way, I’d have busted the Blossom business wide open, because I’m sick and tired of those leeches lounging in their mansion while we do their grunt work and get caged for it. But with the Blossoms out of the picture, the Serpents and the Ghoulies would be competing for a new source, and there’s enough bad blood between us as is. Also, Toni’s obsessed with Cheryl. She wants to marry her so they can rule the maple and drug empire like tiny despots with coordinating candy-colored hair. I don’t see the appeal, personally. I’m convinced the Blossoms are demons summoned by a Greendale witch to sow discord in Riverdale.”

“Jug, I’m so sorry you were hamstrung. I never realized Southside politics were so complicated...Wait. What are Ghoulies?”

Jughead raises his eyebrows in surprise. “No wonder Northsiders have such a grudge against the Serpents, if they think we’re the only gang around! The Ghoulies are nastier than we could ever be. I’m amazed that they’ve been able to fly under the radar, because they look like extras in a 60's horror B-movie. Skull and stud jackets. Upside-down crucifixes. One guy even sharpened his teeth into fangs.”

Betty laughs, “They sound like cartoons.”

“They act like cartoons!” He rolls his eyes. “And people say our snake bit is cliche? Malachi-that’s the Ghoulie leader-slinks around with his shirt unbuttoned, telling anyone who'll listen that he eats human flesh. Their bar is called the House of the Dead, and they drive hearses.” Jughead stops suddenly and grabs Betty’s hand. “Betty. They can be dangerous. If you see someone in a skull jacket, steer clear.”

Betty scoffs. After taking on her father, she’s hardly frightened by some small-town hoods. “I can take care of myself, Jug.”

“I know you can,” he says softly. “But this gang? They fetishize death. They probably got off on the Black Hood terror. I don’t want them to go after you as some sort of, of...I don’t know, trophy or something.”

“A trophy,” Betty says dully, feeling the stitches on her heart start to strain. Until now, Jughead has only ever treated her like a normal girl. _I should’ve known better than to think it would last. It had to come up sometime. I’m not a normal girl._

“So, what,” she continues bitterly, “you think this Malachi will try to kidnap me to be Princess of the Dead? That’s what I am, isn’t it? The Death Princess, languishing in her bedroom in the Murder House, a stain on Riverdale.”

“No, Betty, oh no." He's speaking so quickly the words run into each other. “I didn’t mean it like that. I have never, ever thought of you like that.” He scoops her into his lap and hugs her tightly. “Tenacious investigator, sure. Badass mechanic. Blue ribbon baker. The prettiest girl I’ve ever met. That’s what I see when I look at you. And I know your mom said no when Archie offered, but I'll paint over that filth on your door. I’ll send a Serpent to stand guard so no one tries that shit again, if you just say the word.”

Betty leans her head on his arm and kisses it lightly. “There’s no need for that, Juggie. I’m sorry I melted down. I know you didn’t mean it that way.”

He turns her in his arms. “Don’t be sorry," he murmurs. "You don’t have to hold it in all the time.” 

Betty looks in his eyes and sees only tenderness there. She breathes out. _You can trust him._ It is that thought that has her leaning in for a kiss, and he kisses her back, so gently. He stays close when they separate, touching his forehead to hers. 

“Do you want to rest here awhile?” he asks. Wordlessly, she stretches out on the blanket beside him, and he wraps his arms around her. _I hope he feels the way I feel,_ she thinks, once the light has turned pink over the field of flowers. _I hope I can make him so happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	5. potential

“Jones. Jones.” Jughead groans and swats the air blindly. He doesn’t want to wake up. He opens his eyes anyway, only to recoil at the shadow reaching to pull him up. This is the hand that lifted him, bleary-eyed and breathless, out of the Sunnyside dust-right after knocking him into it. Once Jughead orients himself, the memory dissolves.

“Sweet Pea,” he says hoarsely, rubbing the crick in his neck, “Morning.”

“Bed’s free, if you want another hour.”

“I’m up, I’m up.” Jughead fumbles for his hat until Sweet Pea plucks it from the coat rack and drops it in his lap. 

Sweet Pea crosses the room to pour two black coffees. “Shake?” he asks.

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

“I don’t get how someone I’ve seen scarf down five chili cheese dogs and half a chocolate cake can be squeamish about protein shakes. Don’t you want to bulk up? You’re a noodle.”

“So I’m a noodle,” he shrugs, unconcerned. “I make it work.”

Sweet Pea’s apartment is Spartan, but his kitchen is fully stocked with lean proteins and foul-tasting Swedish weight gain powder. When they were kids, he resented having to defer to a scrawny boy two years his junior. Jughead suspects that’s the reason Sweet Pea wore brass knuckles to Jughead’s Serpent initiation. He doesn’t exactly blame him for being bitter; in the months leading up to the gauntlet, Jughead was his most obnoxious self, boasting incessantly about his birthright. He was Sunnyside Trailer Park’s Theon Greyjoy, and, in retrospect, he’s surprised no one knocked him unconscious for it. Fortunately, the gauntlet was a wakeup call, and he abandoned his princely ambitions. He proved himself stealthy enough to evade the cops and scrappy enough to hold his own in a fight, and Sweet Pea softened to him.

Sweet Pea’s laugh is pure locker-room. “Yeah, that’s right, you do! Why didn’t you tell us about this Northsider you’ve been nailing? Did you think we didn’t know?”

Jughead frowns. “Know what?”

“Girls have been chasing you for years, and you never give any of them a second look. Not since Toni, anyway. At first we thought you were gay or not into sex or something. But Joaquin noticed the blondes in those old movies you like. And I saw you salivating over the waitress in _Sin City_ _._ Fangs said that you had a secret girlfriend.” He frowned. “Damn, now that son of a bitch is going to win the pool. He called Northsider. Joaquin thought you had a Romeo-and-Juliet thing going with a Ghoulie.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “And you?”

“Oh, I laid money on you dying a virgin. Your Northsider seems alright, though. Definitely too hot for you. Knows her engines. No wonder you never paid attention when we talked cars; you had your own personal mechanic to service you whenever you wanted.” 

Jughead pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sweet Pea. Please. For the love of God. Shut the fuck up.”

Sweet Pea raises his hands, palms out, and says, “Alright, alright. I’m just saying.”

“And don’t talk like that to Betty.”

For a second, Sweet Pea appears genuinely hurt. “I’m not going to hassle your girlfriend, Jug. I’ll be as proper as an altar boy, I promise.”

Jughead breathes out a laugh. “Ok, 1. When you were an altar boy, you were skimming from the alms box, and 2. Don’t treat her like...like the Serpent Princess or whatever. Just try to be a little respectful for once.”

Jughead isn't sure that Betty is his girlfriend. _Do we have to talk labels? If you make out enough, are you automatically dating? Because that was a lot of making out. Heart emoji is a girlfriend thing, right? She sends a lot of heart emoji._ Of course, he’d die before admitting any of this to Sweet Pea. 

Jughead has never bothered to explain his complicated feelings about sex. He doubts his friends would understand. They ogle and flirt and hook up with strangers at parties. Jughead’s rarely attracted to girls at first sight, and he cringes when they’re immediately attracted to him. He doesn’t trust instalust. He wants substance.

What happened the night of the gauntlet cemented it for him. After the beating, Joaquin had half-carried him into the trailer, and Toni patched him up. Jughead asked Toni to give him his Serpent tattoo; she was a talented artist with a steady hand, and Jughead trusted her more than the guy at the Python Parlor. As kids, they’d run through the neighborhood with spray paint, and her pink and purple snakes cast his crowns in the shade. Jughead tried to nap while she worked, but his body buzzed along with the gun, and it was only as she finished up that the endorphins tipped him into a state of relaxation. 

Then she climbed into his lap and kissed him. He had barely recovered from the shock when she moved his hand to her breast, but he didn't even have a chance to savor it, because she bumped his cracked rib, and Jughead wheezed. Tired, confused, and aching, he was lucky to make it to the couch before losing consciousness. Toni slept alone in his bed. When the boys banged into the trailer the next morning and found her there, Fangs whistled, but Sweet Pea looked sour. 

“Don’t worry,” Fangs told Jughead, “he’s just jealous that you’re next in line. Girls are going to be gagging for a chance to be queen. Toni’s only the beginning, man.”

Jughead hadn’t exactly wanted to date Toni, but he loved her as a friend, and he’d been crushed that she had treated him as FP Jones’s heir instead of Jughead. _I should have known. My bicep was leaking plasma and my mouth was dripping blood. Only someone with ulterior motives would jump on that._ He thought about flirting with someone on the Northside but worried they’d want a bad boy-or a dirty little secret, easy to throw away when times get tough.

After all, his mom fled, once she learned the truth of the Serpents. It was hard to imagine a girl accepting his introversion, his weirdness, and his hipster taste, let alone his role in the gang. By the time he was old enough to realize lots of girls care nothing for status, he only had eyes for Betty Cooper. He couldn’t pretend to want anyone else. He has a bizarrely monogamous heart. 

“I’ll cover for you with FP,” Sweet Pea offers, “if you want time with your girl. I get why you hid it.” He shakes his head, perplexed. “Your dad’s uptight sometimes.”

“Thanks, Sweet Pea,” he says.

“Speaking of which,” Jughead sighs, “time to put in an appearance at the bar.” He freshens up in Sweet Pea’s tiny but immaculate bathroom, then opens the door, letting a fluffy sheepdog trot past. Jughead can hear Sweet Pea praising him in a baby voice as he walks down the hall. 

The Whyte Wyrm is dim and quiet. Two barflies are drinking whiskey and sharing a bowl of salted peanuts. Thomas Topaz is sitting in a booth perusing a stack of invoices. “Behind the bar, Jug,” he says, and Jughead climbs over an unopened crate to retrieve the box of donuts. 

Jughead has polished off a maple glaze when he hears the dreaded, “Boy!” and looks up to see his father beckoning him into the back office. He appears sober, which is a relief, but his expression is forbidding.

“What’s this I hear about you handing off profits to Toni? Sending Joaquin to get Toni’s approval for my order?”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “You were gone, Dad. Toni picks up a lot of the slack around here. I figured she could handle it better than I could.”

“Toni Topaz is not my heir. You’re the one who’s going to be the Serpent King.”

Jughead scoffs.

“I’m not sure Toni can be trusted,” FP frowns. “She’s spending too much time with that Blossom girl.” Somehow, even though she came out ages ago, people forget that Toni is bisexual. It never ceases to amaze Jughead that anyone could look at Cheryl and Toni and think “gal pals.” When they’re together, they practically vibrate with lust. There are benefits, however. As long as Penelope Blossom can convince herself that their partnership is quasi-professional, she won’t be spraying homophobic vitriol in their direction.

“I get that the Blossoms are our ‘ancestral enemies’ or whatever, but you clearly don’t care enough about that to stop doing deals with Clifford,” Jughead sneers. “I’d think you’d appreciate that Toni is allying with the next generation. She’s loyal to us, and everyone knows that it’s Cheryl who’ll inherit the family business. Jason ran off with Polly Cooper, and he’s never coming back.”

“You’re the one who should be making alliances, son.”

“Cheryl Blossom is pretty poison. Toni’s tolerating her is a goddamn miracle. There’s nothing you can say that could induce me to cozy up to that harpy.” Jughead tears off his beanie in frustration. “Why is this so important to you? Tradition? If you love the Serpents so much, if they’re worth destroying our family for, you should want them to have it better. You’re barely keeping this place afloat. And I wouldn’t be able to, either, because I don’t want the job!”

FP waves his finger in Jughead’s defiant face. “You snakelets have no idea how much I do for the Serpents. If you did, you’d understand why I need to wind down with a drink every now and again. And don’t you bring your mother into this. She abandoned us because she couldn’t hack it here. She was too weak and too cowardly. The Serpents had nothing to do with it.”

Jughead clenches his fist, wishing he could throw a punch. How quickly FP forgets his mother’s stoicism when the police were raiding their trailer. After his arrest, she was parenting a toddler and an eight year old alone. Jughead was the one who listened to her cry herself to sleep at night, who helped her clip coupons and change diapers, who watched her body shrink until her ribs showed through her clothes. It was Jughead who swallowed his fear and his anger and his grief to ease her burdens, until the day he lit a match to burn them up.

He can feel the rage rising in his chest. “That’s it. I’m gone,” he says.

“Throw your tantrum, but it won’t change anything. And we will be discussing what you’re up to with Alice Cooper’s girl later.”

Jughead storms out, ignoring the patrons who greet him, and calls Betty. “Is it ok if I come over?” he asks, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she says yes. 

Betty is sitting on the stairs waiting for him. She looks sweet and fresh in her mint top and denim shorts. Her neighbor complains, “Isn’t it enough that this cursed house is going to drive down home prices? Now we have hoodlums infesting the neighborhood?” But Jughead can’t bring himself to care, and Betty’s eyes don’t move away from his. Nothing could spoil the euphoria of living his middle school dream: tugging the flippy end of her ponytail to draw her into a kiss.

She pulls him into the house with both hands and doesn’t let go until they are upstairs in her bedroom; he decides not to mention the chaotic mess on the first floor. He’s so focused on her that it takes a second to notice that her desk is a buffet. There are ham and cheese sandwiches on fresh rolls, a bag of pretzels, a bowl of candy, and a root beer. 

“You sounded tense on the phone, so...I thought snacks might make you feel better.” 

He shakes his head in wonder and kisses her. It’s not a good kiss, because he can’t stop smiling, but she doesn’t seem to mind, swiping off his beanie. _She likes my hair,_ he realizes smugly. While he digs into the feast, she sits on the bed, watching him through the mirror and idly tracing the points of his hat.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“It’s nothing. Serpent drama.”

“It’s something.”

He sighs. “It’s pressure from Dad-from everyone, really. Apparently I’m a jerk because I’d rather get out of this town than die here as the Serpent King.”

Betty frowns, puzzled. “They don’t want you to go to college?”

“Toni calls this a gap year, but everyone else takes it as a given that I’ll stay here. They don’t want to go to school, so they don’t understand why I want to. It’s ironic, because these are the same people who ribbed me as a kid for being a bookworm. Yet they think my brains are useless unless they can help the gang.”

By this point, he’s joined her on the bed, laying back on her pink pillow so she can rest her head on his chest. She can’t seem to keep her hands off him, and it’s almost overstimulating. Brief hugs from Toni and backslapping ones from the boys are the only physical affection he’s known in years. He hasn’t held anyone besides Betty since his baby sister was taken. He hasn’t been held since his mother left him.

Jughead tells Betty about elementary school, when he was top of his class. The guidance counselor, a young do-gooder from the city, told him that he was a scholar. When she saw Jughead at the school book fair, staring forlornly at books he couldn’t afford, she snuck them to him, whispering, “Our little secret.”

“Aww, Juggie. Was she your first love?”

He chuckles, “Yeah, I guess. She was the first person who saw me as someone with potential. Well, potential to be something other than a dealer.”

“What happened?”

“Juvie,” he sighs. “When I came back to school, she was still nice, but...she was disappointed. She started treating me like a bad seed.”

Betty gasps, outraged, “You were a little boy!”

“She wasn’t all bad,” he says. “She convinced the librarian to give me a card even though I wasn’t old enough. My parents couldn’t be bothered to fill out the forms.”

“That doesn’t excuse her,” Betty scowls. He touches the furrow between her brows, smiling at her indignation.

“After I joined the Serpents,” he continues, “the librarian got skittish. She won’t even hand me the books. She just leaves them on her desk, muttering to herself about delinquents. Like your neighbor back there.” He laughs like it doesn’t sting, but Betty sees through him, hugging him tighter.

“They’re ignorant and malicious and you’re better than they are in every way, whether they admit it or not,” she says firmly. _Hope is dangerous,_ he reminds himself, but it's hard to believe in moments like this.

“I went through the old issues of the _Red & Black. _Juggie, you’re a great writer. You can’t give that up for the Serpents.”

He grins, delighted. “My advisor liked my stuff, but he was high up in the drug business. I could never tell how much of his praise was genuine and how much was currying favor with the Serpent Prince.” He rolls his eyes as he says the title.

When she stiffens, realizing that his advisor was a victim of the Black Hood, he whispers, “Don’t,” and kisses the top of her head.

“Betty…,” he asks haltingly, “why are you here? Why aren’t you going to school? Why didn’t you go on the trip with Archie and Veronica?”

She lets out a shuddering breath. “Lots of reasons. There wasn’t money, for one, and I didn't have time to apply for a scholarship. The paper was in Dad’s name-and it stayed his thanks to the prenup. So he gave it to the Lodges, likely out of spite. I don’t know if they fired Mom right away or if that was Dad’s condition, because Dad is still angry that he didn’t kill her. Now Mom is bracing for the possibility of a wrongful death suit and sorting out divorce.” She laughs bitterly. “I thought I had a college fund, but it turns out it all went to the Sisters and Dad’s car. I loved that car, too. I put blood, sweat, and tears into that car. And now it’s sitting in some warehouse until it’s sold at a police auction.”

Jughead is chilled by the steadiness of her voice as she describes the total decimation of her comfortable upper middle class life. 

“And this summer? Why not get out of this town?”

She waves toward her bedroom window, which faces Archie’s. “Archie was a wreck after Grundy, especially after my dad...well, he and my dad used to stand in the yard and talk football, you know? He deserves to escape as much as I do. More than I do. Me being there would ruin it for him. Veronica is doing so much to support him that I’m worried she’ll burn out. I couldn’t lay my baggage on her, too.”

Jughead agrees that Archie is in desperate need of a new start. After Grundy’s death, he only played songs in a minor key, and he stopped writing lyrics, as though tormented by the limits of language. He took up boxing, working out in the garage for hours at a time. It was painful enough for Jughead to observe from afar. He can’t imagine what it must have been like for Betty to witness from her bedroom, especially since she was grieving herself.

“They don’t think of you as a burden. I promise you that. They love you.”

“Yeah,” she replies softly. “They love me. But when they’re sad, I can’t help but think it’s my fault. I’m a walking, talking reminder of the Black Hood. I find myself going back to the way I used to be: smiling when I want to cry, pushing myself to the limit to try to fix things. But they’re too sharp these days to fall for my old tricks.

“Do you know what’s funny?” she continues. “I used to feel so lonely when everyone thought I was a normal girl. There was so much pressure to be perfect, to be worthy of being admired, and I got so tired of pretending. Now I find myself missing it, sometimes. I miss having the option.”

Jughead has always recognized the strength of her will, her fierceness, her generosity, sometimes at her own expense. But he missed the insecurity that fueled her perfectionism. He missed her feelings of alienation. He missed the hard-boiled core of her. She’s so honest with him, even when she’s describing a lifetime of lying. It makes him want to tell her his secrets, too.

Jughead is famous for his reticence. All of the Serpents are aware that he couchsurfs around town to avoid his drunken father, but they don’t dare mention it. They give him their spare keys and stock his favorite snacks when they have extra cash. But they are also loyal to his dad, so he rarely has heart-to-hearts like this. He’s never connected with anyone this way before. 

“Do you wish you could go back?”

“Oh, no,” she says emphatically. “It’s always better to know the truth. But I wish I’d been better prepared for the fallout. You’re so good at letting people’s judgement roll off your back. You’re so cool all the time. The way they meant it in the 60’s. When people glare at me, I just want to curl up in a ball.”

He snorts at the image of himself as cool. “Betty, no way. That’s the result of years of practice. It gets easier, I promise. And you have people to help you.”

Betty moves to straddle him. “I don’t want to care about what they think anymore,” she says. “I care about what you think, though.”

“What I think, Betty Cooper,” he says, flipping her over and savoring the resulting giggles, “is that you’re beautiful.”

Her laughter trails off. Her big green eyes are full of wonder. He is overwhelmed by the vulnerability of that expression: she doesn’t hide her longing for him, putting her hand on his cheek to draw him to her. He turns to kiss the soft skin above the bandage on her palm. _Gearhead,_ he thinks fondly, then leans down to kiss her lips.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was something almost obscene about rolling around in bed with Betty in that girlish bedroom. The pale pink wallpaper, the cheerleading portrait on the vanity mirror, the vase of delphiniums, the _Nancy Drew_ on the bookshelf. The overall effect is so wholesome. _That’s a kink I didn’t know I had_ , he marvels on the ride home. It was thrilling to have the ultimate good girl in his lap, biting at his neck and gasping his name. It was equally as satisfying to learn the truth of her. They have more in common than he ever could have imagined. 

Reluctantly, Jughead drives to the Twilight. He’s playing _Shadow of a Doubt_ tonight. He’s seen Hitchcock’s entire oeuvre, so he’d planned to doze or zone out, but he’s glued to the screen. The bobbysoxer discovering her doting uncle is a serial killer hits differently now. Later, in his muggy bedroom, Jughead opens the _Red & Black _article he never finished. He reads through the list of Hal Cooper’s victims.

_Dead_

Geraldine Grundy aka Jennifer Gibson: 36 years old. Riverdale High School music teacher. Raped teenage boys in several states. Strangled in her home with her own cello bow.

Robert Philips: 39 years old. Southside High School English teacher. Jingle Jangle distributor, one level below Clifford Blossom. Shot in his own apartment with a .22 pistol..

Midge Klump: 16 years old. Riverdale High School student. Jingle Jangle user with a reputation for having sex with multiple partners. Stabbed and crucified with butcher knives and scissors on the stage of the school auditorium.

Dr. John Masters: 50 years old. Riverdale Hospital physician. Throat slit with a scalpel in the emergency room. Crime of opportunity during an escape attempt.

_Alive_

Marmaduke Mason aka Moose: 17 years old. Riverdale High School student. Jingle Jangle user and boyfriend of Midge Klump, also known to be promiscuous. Shot in his car on Lover’s Lane with .44 pistol.

Alice Cooper nee Smith: 45 years old. Wife of 25 years, mother of his two children, partner managing the _Riverdale Register._ Strangled.

The press has been peddling Hal’s own narrative: that every victim was a symbol of Riverdale’s sins. He believes that they needed to be punished, made an example of, so that the town would recommit itself to virtue. He describes himself as a moral crusader. He presents himself as calculating, insisting that the victims were carefully selected and the killings carefully planned. Considering his reputation as an intelligent, successful newspaperman, journalists were inclined to believe him.

And yet, there’s no logic to his choice of victims. Why these seven? Why not Clifford and Penelope Blossom, corrupt maple syrup magnates, responsible for most of Riverdale’s Jingle Jangle supply? Why not Jason Blossom, the playboy who impregnated Hal’s daughter? Why his wife and not Polly, the unwed mother of her cousin’s twins? Why not Hiram Lodge, white collar criminal, or the Serpents, for that matter, whom his wife regularly pilloried them in the paper? Why Midge Klump instead of Chuck Clayton or Reggie Mantle, who are far more notorious for their sexual exploits? And why were Grundy and Midge Klump killed so theatrically? 

Jughead writes about the Coopers’ precarious finances and Betty’s suspicion that her father orchestrated their poverty out of spite. He writes about Hal and Archie, wondering whether Archie’s involvement with Grundy is what put the target on her back. He writes about Betty’s relationship with her father, who was both caring and controlling, and who devoted so much time to teaching her how to fix cars. He tries to connect the dots between Betty’s stories, the autopsy files, and the press reports, but he’s no closer to forming a picture of the Black Hood.

He cannot wrap his mind around it. How could the Black Hood have produced this kind-hearted girl, who so willingly carries guilt that does not belong to her?

He shakes off thoughts of murder and falls into his narrow, lumpy bed. He fantasizes about scaling a ladder to climb through Betty Cooper’s window, sliding under her rainbow quilt, and protecting her from nightmares. He dreams of her protecting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think! <3


	6. labels

Betty peers down at the crankshaft. She asks, “Can you hand me-“ but Sweet Pea is already dropping new bearings into her palm.

He’s Sweet Pea to her now. “SP was the boss’s idea,” he’d told her on her second shift, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t scowl so severely anymore. _Either he’s accepted me as a fellow gearhead,_ she thinks, _or Jughead ordered him to play nice._ If Jughead did interfere, she has to admit she’s grateful. 

Archie and Veronica are long gone. Kevin is preoccupied with Moose, who’s twisted up by Jingle Jangle. Her mother is preoccupied with her new freelancing job. But Betty isn’t lonely, because she has Jughead. 

After fantasizing for years about dating him, Betty thought she knew what to expect. They’d debate literature. They’d ride his motorcycle to the creek. They’d hook up in the projection booth. And she was right; they do all three.

But Jughead is _sweet._ He keeps her white helmet on his bikerest. He carries an extra flannel in his bag because she gets chilly at night. He holds her hand, unashamed, even when people stare. Sometimes his romantic gestures are downright cinematic. They share vanilla milkshakes at Pop’s like it’s 1954. He slips seed packets in her purse: pink camellias for longing, crocus for gladness, violets for everlasting love. In the garden, he rests his head in her lap while she weaves flower crowns; he even modeled one for her, putting it over his beanie while she doubled over in laughter. His crooked smile is simultaneously smug and self-mocking, as if to say, “Can you believe I’m doing this? Let alone that I do it so well?”

Betty wants Jughead to know what it’s like to be taken care of; by all accounts, neither of his parents are the domestic type, so she finds herself acting like an old-fashioned housewife. She cooks for him: quiche and pot roast, brownies and lemon cake. She sews the buttons on his flannels. She tunes up his bike and makes it shine. She tells him, over and over, that he is kind and brilliant, and that he’ll thrive no matter where he lives, no matter what his neighbors say. 

Betty had expected Jughead to be stoic and taciturn; his public face has always been reserved. But he speaks freely about his pain and his self-doubt, and he listens patiently while she describes her own. He says her honesty inspires him. She wonders if he understands how repressed her old self had been. Her candor is a recent development, a consequence of the public splintering of her white picket fence life. 

Kevin teases her mercilessly for her “Jugheadmania.” He must be giving V regular reports, but Betty is careful not to gush about her dates to Archie and Veronica; it would be just like Archie to let it slip to Jughead.

When a car swerves into the lot, Betty takes off her gloves and straightens her blue headband. _There’ll be time for mooning later._

 _“_ I’ve got this one,” she assures Sweet Pea. She regrets it immediately, because Chuck Clayton is parking his white Ferrari, and Reggie Mantle is in the passenger seat.

“How may I help you?” Betty asks in her perkiest customer service voice.

“No way. I’m not letting a Crazy Cooper near my car,” Chuck tells Reggie, though the words are meant for Betty. “She’d cut the brake line.”

Betty takes a deep breath. _Be professional._ _Be professional._ “Your car is perfectly safe here, Chuck.”

He sneers, “Like I was in Ethel Muggs’ hot tub?”

Betty scoffs. “Oh, please, you were fine within the hour.”

“Dude, careful,” Reggie snickers. “I saw her at High’s Hardware buying a shovel. She could be burying bodies in the backyard.” 

“If you aren’t going to be using our services today,” Betty says firmly, “then I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

They quiet suddenly, looking over her shoulder, and she turns to see Sweet Pea, twirling a tire iron with faux-casualness. His coveralls are unzipped to display his Serpent tattoo.

“What she said.”

The boys roll their eyes, but, before they drive away, Chuck taunts, “Maybe I’ll come back, have a chat with your boss about Ethel’s. I heard your daddy tried to off your mom, but not you. He must’ve known you were meant for the family business.”

It’s an empty threat. Chuck and Reggie don’t believe half the words that come out of their mouths; she wonders, sometimes, if they bully out of habit. Still, she shivers.

Reggie yells from the window, “We’ll be coming for you, snake!” and the tires squeal as they depart. 

“Thanks, Sweet Pea,” she says tiredly. “How did you know there was trouble?”

“Ferrari Californias are shit cars. They’re for douchebags who want to look rich on Instagram. Had to be Bulldogs. I fucking hate Bulldogs.”

“Tell me what just happened.” Mr. Fairlane demands from the doorway, crossing his arms. “Did you chase off paying customers?”

“They were antagonizing us, sir,” Betty says, but he isn’t listening. He points at Sweet Pea’s neck.

“What did I tell you about showing that snake? I don’t want people thinking this is a Serpent front. Cover that up!”

Betty puts her hands on her hips. “He didn’t do anything wrong! Those weren’t customers, anyway. They were boys who came by to harass me. SP scared them off. He did a nice thing and shouldn’t be punished for it. It’s discrimination.”

Mr. Fairlane throws up his hands in exasperation. “Try not to make any more enemies, for God’s sake.”

Betty and Sweet Pea return to the garage, but Betty can’t concentrate on work. She sits on a stool and stares at her distorted reflection in the chrome. _Oh no,_ she thinks. _Oh no, oh no._ She barely makes it to the staff room before she’s hyperventilating. 

_Five things I see._ She orders herself to focus. _Smudged mirror, fluorescent light, tile floor, open window, first aid poster. Four things I touch: steel sink, pumice soap, yellow padlock, blue locker. Three things I hear: a Hall & Oates song on Mr. Fairlane’s radio, clanging from the garage, Sweet Pea’s muttered curses. Two things I smell: bleach on the floor, oil on my gloves. One thing I taste: cold water. _ She fills her cupped hands with water to soothe her dry mouth, then splashes her face and wrists. She tells herself, _This will pass. It always does._ There are two lines of crescent wounds now, so Betty retrieves another bandage from her locker. She tends to her palms, then she puts on her work gloves. 

Sweet Pea doesn’t acknowledge her red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks. They work in silence for a full hour before he asks, “Cooper, huh?”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Cooper.”

He doesn’t look at her. “You know my dad was a Serpent?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Used my mom as a human shield during a drug raid.”

Betty gasps, horrified. “Oh, god. Is she ok?”

“Yeah.”

“And your dad?”

“Prison.”

Betty hums thoughtfully. “Do you forgive him?”

“Fuck no.”

“Do you still love him?”

“I choose not to.”

“How’s that work?” 

He shrugs. “Comes and goes.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, “about what he said out there.” 

He snorts. “That’s nothing.”

By the end of the shift, she almost feels like she’s made a friend. Then she spots Jughead waiting just outside the door, and she knows she has. 

He strides towards her and pulls her into a tight hug. 

“He called you?” Her voice is muffled by his chest.

He draws back, eyes searching her face intently. “Are you ok?”

“It’s fine. The usual. I’d rather not talk about it.”

He opens his mouth to object, then closes it. “Whatever you want. The trailer’s free, if you want to relax.”

She shakes her head firmly. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Betty…” 

“I’m sure, Jug. I need to keep moving. Let’s ride to Centreville.” 

He nods, handing her the helmet. They wave to Sweet Pea, who salutes them as he drives off. 

Centerville is twice the size of Riverdale, though equally quaint. It’s famous for its colonial architecture and the shops that line its eponymous boulevard. Old-fashioned street lamps stretch from the post office to the library. 

Before that night three months ago, Betty never spent much time in Centerville-or anywhere outside Riverdale, for that matter. Now, she savors any reminder that the world is bigger than her hometown. She browses Rerun Thrift, sniffs scented candles at The Soap Shoppe, and drinks smoothies at The Rabbit. She curls up in a leather armchair beneath the library’s arched window, reading books of poetry.

Betty takes Jughead’s hand and leads him up the library steps. At the circulation desk, a grey-haired woman is flipping through a science journal. She doesn’t notice them at first, so Betty has time to tighten her ponytail and fix a smile on her face. 

“Do you carry any histories on the local Catholic community?” Betty asks, ignoring Jughead’s side-eye. The librarian directs them upstairs. 

“Betty,” Jughead whispers, “what are we doing here?”

“If we’re going to expose the Sisters, we need to start by understanding where they came from.”

“Is this really the time?”

“Jug, I would never have snuck in there the way I did without the Blossoms’ backing. I couldn’t risk getting caught. Polly might have paid the price. I mean, I have the blueprints at home, of course. But to go in half-cocked is too dangerous.”

He puts his hands on her shoulders. “Betty, this isn’t about the blueprints! This is about you.”

“This will make me feel better,” Betty insists. Betty is calmest when she has a purpose. Fred had asked, “Why gardening?” and she heard what he really wanted to know, “Why invest in this place now? You’re 18, you’ll be gone soon. The house will have sold.” She thought, _I don’t want this to be salted earth. I want to leave behind something beautiful._

Jughead chucks her under the chin. “Truth and justice, huh, Betts?” 

He kisses her, quickly, as though he can’t resist, and she’s blushing when they enter the room devoted to local history. It is small, dimly-lit, and disorganized. Old copies of the _Centreville Courier_ are stacked in wooden crates behind the bookshelves, and Jughead picks up a paper from ‘68 before he catches himself, smiling guiltily.

“Ready for my assignment, boss,” he says with a jaunty salute, and she laughs, pushing his shoulder. It’s more of a tap than anything, but he falls obligingly back into the chair. He cracks a book about Catholicism in the northeastern United States. 

Betty opens the diary of one of Riverdale’s founders; for a while, she is engrossed in accounts of fur traps and land grabs and maple taps. Then her boyfriend stretches, his heavy black boots clunking onto the desk, and she’s done. He’s too distracting. The curl of black hair on his forehead, the pattern of moles on his cheek, his enticing mouth, his blue-green eyes, the sharp lines of his profile. Is _he my boyfriend?_

“Are you my boyfriend?”

His smile is so bright that every nerve in her body settles at once.

“Betty Cooper,” he says, “it would be my honor.”

Betty stands on her tip-toes to kiss him, and he deepens the kiss, hiking her up on the table. She feels the softness of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the press of his fingers on her hips, the slide of his hand up her side. She hears his quiet hum and the creak of the wood beneath her. She smells the lignin of the old books and the pine of his soap. She savors the now-familiar taste of Jughead. 

How quickly the day has flipped. Every horror of the morning has been crowded out by euphoria. _It’s Jugheadmania_ , she admits to herself, though she’ll never admit it to Kevin. And then she thinks nothing at all.

—————————————————————

They exit the library breathless and giddy. Betty’s phone is full of notes on the founding of a Riverdale maternity home, she and her boyfriend ( _boyfriend!_ ) fooled around without getting caught by the librarian, and the boyfriend in question is _Jughead Jones._ After a spring of fear, grief, and betrayal, she expected a summer of guilt, loneliness, and disappointment. And yet, somehow, the universe gifted her with this. 

_Is it love?_ Betty wonders. _No, of course not._ She trusts him, but she cannot trust herself; besides, she’s uncertain whether she is worthy of devotion. Can she bear to love him if he doesn’t love her back? She remembers Kevin’s gentle warning. “This is the honeymoon phase. Enjoy it, but don’t expect it to last forever.”

 _I can choose,_ reminds herself. (Deep down, she’s not so sure.)

But Jughead is so kind to her. Case in point: he’s driving them to the Whyte Wyrm because he wants to “show her off.” She worries that visiting the Wyrm will entangle him further with the gang, but he explains, “This isn’t business. We’re just meeting up with my friends. You know Sweet Pea already. He, Fangs, and Joaquin are brothers to me. Toni knows me better than anyone in the world.” He rubs her shoulder and assures her, “They’re going to love you.”

When they park the bike in the lot behind the bar, Betty shivers. Jughead takes off his blue flannel and helps her into it. There’s another in his bag, set aside for moments just like this, but she’s glad that he’s forgotten. She prefers the one that smells like him.

The bar is dingy and dark, besides the neon lights behind the stripper pole and the spotlight on the snake tank. It’s packed with Southsiders-pimply middle schoolers, wizened elders, and everyone in between. Betty is one of the few without a leather jacket. She takes a small, involuntary step back, and Jughead places a comforting hand on her shoulder, whispering, “Don’t worry.” 

The bartender is Jughead’s Toni, who also happens to be Cheryl’s Toni. When Betty hops onto a stool, crossing her legs primly at the ankle, Toni snorts. 

“Jones. Cousin Betty.”

Jughead stiffens at her mildly mocking tone. Betty fumbles behind her to squeeze his hand. _I’ve got this._ Her weak spot is her family, and she knows that Toni wouldn’t dare bring up the “Cooper crazy” in front of Jughead. The Cheryl Blossom brand of cattiness doesn’t offend her anymore. 

“Cheryl calls me that when she needs something. Is there something I can do for you, Toni?”

“You can stop gawking at my bar like it’s a zoo exhibit and order a drink. Let me guess: Shirley Temple?” 

Betty doesn’t break eye contact. “Dark and Stormy. And I’d say it isn’t too far off from a zoo. A reptile house, anyway.” She turns to Jughead, "Can I pet the python?"

“No,” says Jughead firmly, and Betty huffs. “An IPA for me.” 

Betty twists the sleeve of his flannel and he hugs her from behind. Toni wrinkles her nose and mutters, “Oh, spare me.”

Jughead laughs, “Come on, Toni, lay off my me and my girlfriend. You and Cheryl Blossom constantly grope each other in public.”

She tosses her long, pink hair. “The public should be grateful.” Jughead rolls his eyes. “But, this...,” she waves derisively in their direction. _She really is perfect for Cheryl,_ Betty admits with reluctant amusement. 

Jughead leans in to kiss Betty’s neck, and she feels his smirk against her skin. She raises her eyebrow at the smaller girl.

“So how was your day?” Jughead asks.

“Slinging beers for these degenerates, mostly. This morning, Cheryl and I had a photoshoot at Thornhill, and I got some stunning shots of her shooting her bow and arrow. She’s nationally ranked, you know.”

“Toni’s a great photographer,” Jughead tells Betty. “She ran the _Red & Black _ with me.”

“Oh, Jones,” Toni replies. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Now, we both know that’s a lie,” he smirks. “Look, we’re going to need to borrow your camera.”

She scoffs. “There is no universe in which I’d trust you with it.”

“It’s for a good cause,” Betty promises. “We’re writing an expose on the Sisters of Quiet Mercy.”

“That creepy ‘home for troubled girls’?

Betty nods. “Ask Cheryl. My parents sent Polly there after she got pregnant, and we had to break her out. It was a horror show. Those nuns have got to be stopped.”

“Of course I’ll help.” Then she turns to Jughead. “This could be a golden opportunity, Jones. I found some fellowships geared towards young writers that are still accepting applications. If you’re able to put something together by August, you might be drinking wine with literati by December.”

“Juggie, that’s a great idea!” Betty claps her hands then holds them beneath her chin..

“I have a feeling our investigation will take at least that long. And Toni, as much as I appreciate your commitment to my career, I’d rather find my own way. Besides, I doubt I’d have a chance against the prodigies who apply to things like that.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Betty frowns. “ _You_ are a prodigy.” For the first time, Toni smiles genuinely at her. She is intimidatingly beautiful.

Then Toni gives Jughead a penetrating look. “That other thing you were working on...that would be a contender, Jughead.”

Before Betty can find out more, he shakes his head sharply and points at the back room. “Be right back,” he says. “I need to talk to Toni for a sec. Serpent business. I’ll be right over there, ok? Stay in my line of sight.” 

Toni rolls her eyes. “She’s a grown up, Jones. I’m sure she can handle sitting at a bar by herself.” 

Betty kisses him quickly. “I’ll be fine,” she assures him. 

Betty fidgets, at a loss as to what to do. She’d like to visit the snake or inspect the photos on the wall, but it’s probably best to avoid drawing attention. She’s perusing case notes when a boy climbs over the bar to pilfer a bottle of whiskey. He doesn’t bother pouring it into a glass. 

“I’ve heard about you,” he says. “Betty, right?” He tilts the bottle in her direction, and she shakes her head.

“Has Jughead been talking about me?” The thought makes her giddy.

“Jones is a vault,” Fangs says, and she deflates. “Sweet Pea’s the gossip. He says you’re alright, for a Northsider.”

“High praise,” Betty says sarcastically.

“From Sweet Pea it is. Are we going to sit here and chat, or are we going to dance?” 

She laughs, startled. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t be a wallflower,” he cajoles, grabbing her hand. “Jones can have you for the slow songs.” As he pulls her onto the stage where Serpents are joking and swaying, he says, “By the way, I’m Fangs.”

Betty lets him twirl her on the dance floor, charmed despite herself. _Maybe the Serpents aren’t so scary after all._ He checks out the boy beside them, winking when he’s caught.

Betty’s eyes land on Jughead, watching them from across the room. His mouth quirks in amusement. She bites her lip and smiles when he does not look away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!!


	7. investigating

The basement of the Whyte Wyrm is Riverdale’s underworld-or at least, Jughead thinks so. Lightbulbs dangle from the ceiling, illuminating the bloodstains on the floor. Teenagers black out on the folding chairs. Strippers earn extra cash on the stained cot. There’s an ice box in the corner that could fit a corpse. 

On Taafe Tuesday, though, the room is clean and bright. The youngest Serpents scrub the floors, move the desk to the center of the room, and surround it with fluorescent lamps, because Mr. Taafe is coming, and he is the meticulous type.

Mr. Taafe looks, at first glance, like he took a wrong turn on his way to Oxford: he’s got white hair, round glasses, and a penchant for tweed jackets. He never ran the gauntlet, and if he has any tattoos, Jughead will eat his hat. But his wife was one of the original snakes, and, now that she’s housebound, she sends him to work in her stead. The odd couple are a running joke among the Serpents, but Jughead doesn't laugh. He envies them their decades of affection. The Serpents would crack the same jokes if they saw him doting on Betty Cooper, but her pleasure is worth the ridicule. Her happiness is his.

In any case, love has been a godsend for the gang, because Taafe is a talented appraiser and fence. Every few weeks, always on a Tuesday, he arrives with his leather satchel to conduct the inspection.

Although the Serpents typically deal in cash, they accept other forms of payment: pearl earrings, diamond necklaces, fountain pens, Kitchenaids. Winter holidays and graduation are busy, because Northsiders are eager to trade presents for drugs.. 

As Serpent Prince, Jughead has never had to do the grunt work: the lifting and the cleaning and the water carrying. He is, however, tasked with overseeing the affair, keeping the Serpents in order and protecting both the jeweler and the jewels. This involves leaning against the wall next to Fangs, looking intimidating while he fantasizes about lunch.

Although Fangs is wild at parties, he is composed the rest of the time; he prefers quirking his eyebrows to talking. Whether sober or drunk, however, Fangs is loyal. As soon as Jughead nodded in Betty’s direction, he rushed over to entertain her. By the end of the night, she was giddy from dancing and jokes, and today, she packed them lunch as a thank you.

Jughead considers scarfing down both roast beef sandwiches before Fangs returns from his smoke break. Then Fangs sits beside him and says, “Your girlfriend’s alright, Jones." Jughead hands one over.

Once the sorting and measuring is done, FP arrives for his ceremonial greeting. Jughead scoffs, _Always taking credit for someone else’s work._ When FP throws an arm around his son’s shoulders, Fangs makes himself scarce.

“How are you, boy?” He doesn’t give Jughead a chance to reply before continuing, “Did you talk to Gladys and Jellybean?”

“She goes by JB these days, Dad.” FP flinches. Jughead has a standing weekly phone call with his mother and sister in Toledo. Gladys blocked FP’s number long ago.

Jughead’s conversations with his mother usually last about five minutes: hi, how are you, fine, how’s the weather out there, be good, take care. She has yet to acknowledge his high school graduation. He suspects that she gave up on him the night of the fire, even if it took her four more years to run. She thinks that he'll end up like FP-a jailbird, a barfly. Never mind that he was ten when he was arrested. His father was thirty-five, old enough to know better by a decade or two. 

Two months after her departure, Jughead finally realized she wasn’t coming back. He asked, “Why did you leave me here?” and she said nothing, just wept, shuddering, guttural sobs. He spent his childhood wiping her tears, and it wasn’t enough to make her stay, let alone to make her love him. He refuses to waste any more sympathy on her. (This is easier said than done.)

Gladys is kinder to Jellybean, and Jughead’s grateful for that, at least. He considers his sister the only Jones worth a damn. JB is a boisterous eleven-year-old obsessed with Pink Floyd and outer space; her favorite place in Toledo is the planetarium. She asks, “When can I come home?” and he doesn’t know how to explain that there’s nothing left for her in Riverdale-he doesn’t count himself as a draw, despite her insistence that he’s “the best big brother ever ever ever.” He wants her to go to a school without metal detectors. He wants her to get an after school job slinging coffee drinks instead of cocktails. Jellybean will not stagger into the Jones trailer under the weight of their half-conscious father. Jellybean will not be stripping her way into the Serpents. 

She asks, “When can you move here? School’s out.” And he doesn’t know how to explain that his mother told him to stay away, because she thinks he is a “bad seed.”

Jughead distracts JB with stories about Betty. He sends photos: Betty posing in his beanie, Betty laying in a field of flowers, smiling at the sky, Betty straddling his motorcycle. She declares that Betty looks like a Disney princess. She asks if Betty can teach her how to fix cars when they visit. 

It’s an uncomfortable reminder that Jughead and Betty haven’t talked about the future. She’s joined forces with Toni, trying to persuade him to apply for writing jobs, but she doesn’t mention her own plans, claiming that she “can’t think about all that yet.” Jughead himself wants to avoid thinking about “all that” for as long as possible, so he doesn’t push. 

The more time they spend together, the more convinced he is that it’s too good to be true. Right now, Betty is reeling from the spring's violence. She’ll recover, and then she’ll remember who she is: Betty Cooper, cheerleader, journalist, gifted student. She’ll remember that she can do better than a gang member.

But Jughead’s good at taking what he can get. He’ll take every minute he’s got left with Betty Cooper. 

“You’re not going to Toledo?” his dad presses, and Jughead stops short. He looks his father full in the face, noting the uncharacteristic furrow in his brow.

“Is that what this is, then? A custody battle? Keep me twisted up with the Serpents so I don’t leave _you_?” 

FP shakes his head. “A snake coils around its young. I’m giving you everything I got.”

“That’s the problem, Dad. A gang shouldn’t have been your everything.”

Nothing FP says is going to change his mind. The gang owns his body, but the gang won’t get the rest of him.

The night he brought Betty to the Wyrm, Toni said, “I know what getting out looks like to you: cold water flat in some other small town, minimum wage at a movie theater, all to be free of that Serpent Prince weight. But you don’t have to settle, my friend. You don’t need a plan. You need a dream.” She told him the Black Hood could be his ticket.

Jughead waved Toni off with a sarcastic, “Good to know you think I’m a one-hit-wonder.”

Secretly, he’s flattered. Toni has always been his harshest critic; she threw out his Lovecraft-inspired story about a bear apocalypse. And, as usual, she’s right: the Black Hood story is good. Great, even. Jughead has favored noir, true crime, and horror since he first put pen to paper, longing to write Riverdale’s answer to _In Cold Blood_ or _American Psycho._ What he produced was, in retrospect, derivative drivel.

But now he can reference a real-world case. Instead of a Lynchian small town, he's writing about Riverdale's Northside. “Evil” has a face, and he recognizes it as the one he saw at the grocery store and the garage. He’s not writing tropes anymore. He’s not writing Tarantino villains, slick and simple. His efforts to understand his girlfriend have made him more attuned to subtle emotions-his own as well as hers. As a result, his characters are complicated people suffering complicated grief. 

But he can’t show Betty. And if he can’t show Betty, he won’t show anyone else, either. He renames the file hamburger.doc and shares his progress on the Sisters of Quiet Mercy case, instead.

After his shift at the Wyrm, once FP has wandered off to reminisce with the old guard, Jughead returns to the trailer to wait for Betty. She arrives with a backpack full of books and a strawberry milkshake, just for him. While she organizes stacks of paper on his kitchen table, eager to play detective, he cannot help but smile at her. His smile drops when she says, “Hey, Juggie, I invited Kevin over to help out.”

“Keller? Kevin Keller?”

Betty looks at him quizzically. “Yeah, of course. He’s my best friend.”

“He’s the son of Sheriff Keller. Sheriff Keller, who put my dad in jail. Who put me in juvie. Who sends his pigs to torment people in my neighborhood.”

“Yeah, he’s his _son_ not his clone.” She puts her hands on her hips. “What happened to all those speeches about how ‘we are not our families’? You and I are perfect examples of how different parents and children can be.”

Jughead winces. “Yeah, ok. But what happens if the Sheriff finds out his precious boy is hanging out with gangsters? I don’t need cops showing up at the trailer.”

Betty rolls her eyes. “Kevin is one of the only out gay people in town. If he wasn’t very, very discreet, he’d be a virgin. And I can promise that he’s far from virginal.”

“Fine,” Jughead rubs his hands over his face. “You win.” It’s worth it when she beams at him, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

He smirks. “But for now, we’re alone.” He lifts her chin with his index finger and she hums happily when he kisses her. She giggles, “We’ve got three hours,” and he scoops her into his arms, dropping her onto his bed. His room is bleak: there’s a poorly spackled hole in the wall, the curtain is fraying, and the only decorations are a _Rebel Without A Cause_ poster and a portrait of Jellybean. He is struck, in that moment, by the impossibility of her. _How are you here with me?_ he marvels. 

And yet he’s not afraid, because she’s gazing at him like he’s something celestial, and she’s the one drawing him down to kiss her. She’s the one reaching for his beanie and tossing it across the room. Her lips quirk in amusement when he loosens her ponytail. It is his favorite indulgence. 

Then it turns giddy and awkward: her shirt caught around his neck, her hair snagged in his buttonhole. His grip is too rough at first-and then not rough enough. But when they’re down to nothing, there’s no self-consciousness, no shame, no hesitation. There are her big, green eyes, shining with trust, then fluttering closed like he’s too beautiful to behold. There’s her bandaged hand, caressing his cheek, then clutching his shoulder. There is her soft skin, breaking out in goosebumps. There is her mouth pressed against his, and her body, moving beneath him. And there is her voice. 

She calls him “Juggie,” not “Jones.”

Even after, when he’s sliding into sleep, Jughead can’t stop kissing her. She rolls half on top of him, loose-limbed, emanating the same contentment that he feels, and shuts her eyes. _If only,_ he thinks, resting his head on top of hers, _I could give her peace like this forever._

When he wakes up from his nap, Jughead lies still for a moment, savoring Betty’s weight on his chest and the violet scent of her hair. Then he slides out from under her and collects their clothes. He folds her denim skirt and polka-dot blouse neatly around her lingerie. He finds his grey S t-shirt trapped between the wall and the bed. When Betty yawns, rustling the sheets with her stretches, he turns.

“Mine,” Betty says, voice thick from sleep, and he thinks, _Yes. I am, I’m yours._ Then he realizes that she’s gesturing at his shirt. He looks down, smiling to himself, as she puts it on, then demands a pair of boxers. She watches him dress in his pajama pants and tank, then heads to the bathroom to freshen up.

Jughead is still reeling by the time she’s shaken off the haze. She sits gingerly on the living room floor, making notes in the margins of an article about mother-and-baby homes, and he sprawls beside her, opening his laptop. He's managed two sentences before there’s a knock at the door. Jughead opens it, grumbling a greeting to Kevin Keller. 

In a fitted shirt and pressed slacks, Kevin Keller appears straight-laced-until he gives Jughead a once-over blatant enough to make him blush. He brushes past Jughead to say hello to Betty. Watching them smile at each other, Jughead realizes that Betty looks downright debauched. Kevin definitely notices the purpling mark above her collarbone, grinning impishly and whispering something that Jughead’s not sure he wants to hear. Betty whispers back, and Jughead can feel his cheeks getting hotter. Then Kevin pulls official-looking documents from his messenger bag and takes a seat on the couch.

Jughead doesn’t think he’s ever had so much trouble concentrating. He glances at Betty, amazed at how shameless she is: fresh from his bed, dressed in his clothing, in front of her Northside friend. She leans against him, running her fingers idly along his snake tattoo-she knows it from memory, now, and Kevin says, “Hey! I’m not going to be the only one doing work today. As much as I approve of summer love, I’ve got to ask you to separate. Leave room for the Holy Spirit, as Grandma used to say.” 

Jughead snorts, shifting away from her. Betty pouts but does not follow him.

“Did you find anything, Kev?”

“Nothing new. Dad’s files on the Sisters are pretty sparse. There were a couple of missing person’s cases marked as ‘solved’ when they were found at the Sisters, but he doesn’t have any other notes.”

“Wait. You stole police files?!”

“What, like it’s hard?”

“Have you heard any rumors about it?” Betty asks, as though this is an everyday occurrence, and Jughead shakes his head in amazement.

Kevin sighs. “Nothing conclusive. Someone I met in Fox Forest mentioned something about queer kids being locked up there, but I’ve never met anyone who could confirm it. I asked Dad about it once. He said his hands are tied until he has actual evidence.”

Jughead sneers, “The Sheriff isn’t willing to take on the Blossoms or the Lodges. Do you really think he’d take on the Catholic Church? He only goes after low hanging fruit: Southsiders.”

“Give me a break. It’s his job to put people in jail when they do something illegal. Don’t pretend the Serpents’ hands are clean.”

“We’re spic-and-span compared to the people running this town.”

Betty claps her hands loudly. “Hey! Kevin, enough. I know you love your Dad, but if he was any good at his job, the Blossoms would be held accountable as often as the Serpents, _my_ Dad would’ve been in jail before his body count hit two, and we wouldn’t be sitting here reading his police files, because I could’ve brought Polly to the station and trusted that he’d arrest the Sisters’ for abuse. And Jughead...stop baiting him when he’s trying to help.”

Kevin nods, chastened, and Jughead reaches for her hand, regretting reminding her of her father.

“Anyway,” Kevin says, shaking it off. “I guess you don’t have much choice in what you sell.”

“Nope.” 

“Would you stop selling Jingle Jangle to a particular customer? As a favor? I have a...friend...I’m worried is going down the rabbit hole.”

Jughead sighs. “I’d help if I could. But it’s not up to me. Besides, he’s better off buying from the Serpents than the Ghoulies.”

When Kevin frowns, perplexed, Betty explains, “They’re the other Southside gang. Bad news, Kevin.”

“They mostly operate in Greendale,” Jughead continues, “while the Serpents keep to Riverdale and Centerville. Greendale’s kind of spooky. Weird stuff happens there. But most of the younger Ghoulies go to Southside High, so they sometimes try to sell here. They thrive on chaos. I wouldn't be surprised if they cut the stuff with something fatal someday.”

“I’ll give him a heads up,” Kevin says glumly, and Betty rubs his back.

"Can we...?" Betty asks, motioning to his room. Jughead shrugs, and Kevin and Betty retreat to his room to gossip. He decides against interrupting them.

“Anyway, I should probably head out,” Kevin says later, with a quiet sniffle. “I have to meet you-know-who you-know-where.” He hugs Betty goodbye and Jughead hears him tell her quietly, “We _will_ be discussing this development further.” On the way out the door, he gives Jughead the gimlet eye for which his father is famous, and Jughead knows what it means: “Take care of her-or else.” Jughead chuckles, because nothing Keller could come up with could compare to Veronica Lodge’s brand of torture.

Once they’re alone, he beckons Betty back to bed. “Movie?” 

“You’d think that you’d get tired of movies, after watching them all day at work.” 

“Never, Betts,” he says loftily, “I’m a true cinephile.” He sets his laptop in front of her. “Your choice.”

While she peruses the selection, Jughead gazes at her profile, glowing blue-white in the light of the screen. “What?” she asks, blushing. “What is it?”

“I like your face, that’s all.”

She grins, delighted, and lunges so that he falls back onto the pillows. She’s so close that he can see the pale freckles on her cheek and the sunburst pattern in her irises. “You know, Juggie,” she replies, “I like yours, too,” and she kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! I'm gonna curl up in mortification now because this is so sappy! 
> 
> Also, I just really want Jellybean to have a relatively stable life, so there’s no crime in Toledo! Also, Jellybean has black hair, because I say so. ;)


	8. presents

Betty kneels on the carpet, labeling a box in her even print. The quiet sound of the marker is punctuated by the peeling and tearing of packing tape. Betty feels every tear in her chest, but she doesn’t flinch. She was always good at that.

She thought she’d lost the knack. 

“Mom, I’m not sure the thrift store will want all of this.”

Her mother huffs, loudly unrolling another piece of tape. “So we’ll send out what’s left. But I’m tired of that dumpy mailwoman glaring at me as though _I’m_ to blame. She’s had it in for me since high school, when I told her she should be a gourd for Halloween. It’s not my fault she’s so gourd-shaped!”

Betty suppresses a sigh. “What’s the rush, anyway?”

“I want to redecorate a little. This doesn’t look much like a Murder House, does it? That’s a testament to my taste, of course; your father never had any. But we could add something sinister to the place without sacrificing charm: a knife block, or some kind of taxidermy, like the foxes in that nightmare manor, Thornhill. _The Evil Next Door,_ that's what the people want.”

“That’s why you wouldn’t paint the doors. You want to make it some sort of ghoulish landmark.” Betty throws up her hands. “Doesn’t what he did bother you?” 

Alice sets down the tape and looks at her, her blue eyes more honest, perhaps, than Betty has ever seen them. “It’s not for you to know what I see in the dark. It’s not for anyone to know. That man won’t make me into a victim. I will use him. I will use his reputation to make the money I need to fix mine, I will laugh at his misery, I will change my name back to Smith, and I will erase him from my memory.”

She speaks as though she is giving advice, except it’s not advice Betty can follow. Alice had 17 years to be Alice Smith before Hal got his hands on her, but every part of Betty has been shaped by him. Even if she changes her name to Smith ( _Jones_ , a silly, secret dream), Betty will be a Cooper. His creation.

She's not like her parents, who were able to repress their own childhoods. Hal refused to speak about his family at all until Nana Blossom let it slip that Polly and Jason are cousins, although he rambled about bloodline plenty, at the end. Alice said she was an orphan, and Betty pitied her too much to question her. 

“Mom, what were you like before you met Dad?”

“I was a good girl, but strong. My parents were Southside trash, may their afterlife be torment, so I had to raise myself.”

“Is that how you know FP Jones? You grew up together on the Southside?”

“What do you know about FP?”

“Oh, hardly anything. All he said was that I should tell you he said hello.”

“Ignore anything that liquor-soaked, leather-clad lizard has to say about me.” Under her breath, her mother adds, “My taste in men really is atrocious. Criminal after criminal.”

Betty cringes. “You dated?!” 

“We were hardly more than children,” her mother says defensively. “And he had a certain...allure, back then.”

“Were you a Serpent?” Betty has no doubt Alice Cooper could wield a switchblade with finesse, python slithering over her shoulder, but it’s hard to picture her in flannel and leather. 

“No,” she answers firmly. “Can you imagine how the press would skewer us if I was? Serial killer and gang member. People would say I was his accomplice.” _Instead, they say that I was,_ Betty thinks sourly.

“I got out by the skin of my teeth,” Alice continues. “I met your father halfway through initiation. Huh. I never thought I would tell anyone about that.”

Betty wonders what drew Hal to Alice. Did he assume that she was dark, like he is? Was he disappointed by her preference for pettier cruelties? Did he admire her commitment to keeping up appearances? Alice hid the sins of her Southside youth for decades, like the Coopers hid their Blossom roots. Like Hal hid his craving to kill. 

“Does Polly know?”

Her mother cackles. “Your sister didn’t balk when she found out the Coopers are Blossoms. Polly isn’t the type to fret over other people’s secrets. The past is the past.”

Betty is hit by a wave of loneliness. She hadn’t wanted to leave Riverdale this summer. She wanted her mom. She thought tragedy would bring them closer together. After all, it was easy to forgive her callousness, once Betty had the Black Hood as a point of comparison. Betty can ignore her vicious remarks if she reminds herself, _Mom is his victim._ She wonders, _Why can't Mom forgive me?_

When Alice rides out of town with her new-old name and her spotless mind, what will happen to Betty? Will she look at Betty and see her beloved daughter, or will she see a Cooper, an unwanted link to her past? Will she look at Betty and see her savior, the girl who knocked out her strangler, or will she see the witness, the girl who knows what she looks like at her most vulnerable?

And Polly...Betty told herself, _Polly’s busy with Jason and the babies. Polly’s grieving Dad just like I am._ But Alice is right-Polly insists that she doesn’t dwell on the past. _Am I the past?_

Betty lifts the box and gazes at her mother, bent over the cardboard carnage: classically beautiful, makeup immaculate, expression forbidding. She takes in the bare spaces on the shelves and on the walls. She lets herself feel the absence. Then she walks out the door.

After running errands, Betty browses the secondhand store. She's always loved the place, despite its narrow aisles and its musty smell, because it's full of stories. Who donated the mink coat? She imagines a California blonde, debating the ethics of the fur trade with her glamorous grandmother. Who made the squirrel out of pine cones? She imagines a sprite traipsing through Fox Forest with a woven basket. Who sold the catcher’s mitt? She imagines a father trading his son’s baseball gear for ballet slippers. 

Then she spots it: a classic typewriter. Betty presses the keys one by one, smiling, satisfied, at each clickety-clack.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jughead arrives seconds after Alice drives away. The old Betty would’ve considered it a bullet dodged, but now she can’t bring herself to care whether her mother disapproves of her boyfriend. She kisses him on the sidewalk. When she opens her eyes, she notices Fred Andrews at the mailbox, and he waves, smiling at her blush.

“Juggie, I have a surprise for you!”

“...Oh.” He sounds so distressed that she stops halfway up the stairs.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s only...historically, surprises haven’t gone well for me.”

Betty links her arm with his, saying firmly, “There’s a first time for everything. I think-” she smiles shyly, “Well, I hope you’re going to like this one.” 

She leads him into her bedroom, ignoring his stiff posture, and gestures toward her desk with a flourish. She tied a blue velvet ribbon around the typewriter; it took ages to perfect the bow. _I hope it’s not silly._

Betty wants to impress him, because Jughead is always giving her the best presents. A tiny pink notebook with a golf pencil in its spiral. “For the investigation,” he said bashfully. “I saw it and thought of you.” A gold charm shaped like a key. “The Serpents’ appraiser is a romantic,” he said. “I showed him your picture, and he let me have my pick of the haul. He wants to meet you, next time he comes to town.” She smiled at the reference to their future together, pretending to need help with the clasp, so he was caressing the nape of her neck when he murmured, “I saw it and thought of you.”

“I saw it and thought of you,” she says now. “It’s secondhand, but it works.” 

He touches the bow with reverence. “Betty, this is...amazing.” 

“I thought it would get you in that Kerouac mood-no Benzedrine required.”

Thanks to the _Red and Black_ , Betty was familiar with Jughead’s writing before they started dating. She admired his incisive movie reviews and his sardonic commentary on high school social dynamics. He wrote about heavier issues, too: judicial corruption, unemployment, homelessness; Betty suspected those articles were attempts to contextualize his own life and justify the Serpents’ role in the Southside. 

Lately, Jughead’s been sending her fiction. Fidgeting, he said, “Tell me what you think. No holds barred,” so the copies she gives back to him are covered in red: strikethroughs and arrows, hearts and exclamation points. Betty loves his writing. The Lovecraft homages are goofy, the mysteries sometimes sacrifice character for plot, and he has a penchant for melodrama, but, at his best, Jughead is a master at building atmosphere and subverting genre. When he incorporates elements from his own life, he is brilliant.

He hugs her. “Betty...Thank you. I don’t know how I got so lucky.” 

"I always feel better when you’re with me," she whispers against his chest. In his arms, she feels both vulnerable and safe. “Except I’d rather be at your place.”

“The trailer?” 

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Um...because it’s a trailer? A trailer inhabited by an 18 year old man and a 45 year old alcoholic? There’s a hole in the living room wall the shape of Tall Boy’s head. There’s a hole in my bedroom wall the shape of Porkchop’s. It’s not exactly a page out of _Architectural Digest_.”

“I’m not my mother. I don’t care about scrapes and scuffs. I like it because it’s yours. I like your stacks of paperbacks. I like that we have so many of the same ones. I like flipping through them and reading your chickenscratch in the margins. I like the way your curtains turn the light soft and blue as it hits your bed.”

Jughead kisses her. “I’m grateful, then. I like yours, too, you know.” He smiles teasingly. “Very Northside Princess.” For the first time, Betty appreciates the title. 

Then she sighs. “It’ll be a museum piece. I think Mom wants to open the house up for murder tours.”

Jughead squeezes her biceps. “That’s not safe.”

“It’s a long way off,” she assures him. “I don’t want to think about it.” 

As though he can read her mind, Jughead grabs her hand. “You’ll never be alone,” he says. “You know that, right?”

She smiles softly. “I know.” Then she laughs. “Veronica promised there’s a room for me anywhere she lives. She’s already picked out the floral Matouk bedding.”

Betty taps the roof of her dollhouse, a white Victorian with pastel furniture. “Mom will probably want this for one of her little exhibits.” 

“Classic horror prop, the dollhouse,” he says wryly. “ _Bly Manor, T_ _wilight Zone, Sharp Objects, Hereditary._ ”

“Why do you think that is?” 

“I don’t know...the idea of corrupting girlish innocence? Play-acting a nightmare? Indulging a fetish for total control?”

“Control,” Betty murmurs. “It was never going to be possible for me. It makes me feel a little crazy, because I wanted it so badly. What a twisted thing to want.” She frowns, surveying her bedroom. “This doesn’t even feel like mine. None of my memories do. Everything that was mine can be used as a prop to scare people.”

Jughead is silent for a moment. Then he says, “ I know it’s different, but...my dad’s an alcoholic, right? I didn’t understand that when I was little. He’d come home singing, twirling Mom across the room, and I assumed he was happy. He’d let me play hooky, and we’d go to the arcade, until I realized it was his tradition after getting fired. Once I knew the truth, I thought, ‘It’s ruined. Those times when I was happy with him, they don’t count anymore.’ But now...I don’t know. They made me happy, for a while. That happiness influenced me-sometimes in good ways.”

“You see good in the lies?” Betty is surprised by Jughead’s optimism, because he’s never been one to shy away from the dark side of life. She can hardly breathe through the rage she feels toward his father.

“In finding a way to accept the lies. I have to. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be a Serpent, because I couldn’t stand working with my dad. I’d have to cut off my neighbors and my friends and move full-time into the back room of the Twilight or something. I’d be alone.” He presses his finger against the pointed roof of her dollhouse. “Did you ever hear of Frances Glessner Lee? The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death?”

She shakes her head.

“Detectives weren’t trained how to investigate, back in the 50’s. So she built these dollhouses. They were perfect replicas of the real crime scenes. I mean, perfect, down to the soup cans and the apron trim, down to the blood spatter on the dolls. That horror trope... the dollhouses...detectives still use hers to study crime. It’s all about perspective, right? Wanting control can be productive, not destructive, depending on the context. And you’ve found a way to have control over some things. Cars. News articles.” Jughead smirks. “It’s what makes you such a ruthless editor.”

He strides to her window. “Bad things happened here, and the strangers might focus on those. But great things happened, too. You became Betty Cooper here.” He pulls a switchblade out of his pocket and flicks it open. “This is a happy moment, right?” he asks, suddenly shy. 

“Yeah, of course,” she smiles

“May I?” he asks, and she nods, although she doesn’t understand what he’s asking. 

He carves a crude “B.C.” into the wood beneath her windowsill. “There,” he says. “Now it’s yours. A record of a happy moment.”

She laughs, reaching for the switchblade. “Not yet,” she says and carves two “J”s. _When I’m with him,_ she marvels, _it’s so easy to have hope._

As soon as he pockets the knife, she’s pushing his Serpent jacket off his shoulders. 

Betty was the last virgin in their group of friends, and everyone had something to say about it. Cheryl mocked her viciously for being a prude. Archie reminded her that she could say no at any time. Polly spoke in romantic euphemisms (“Let him guide you,” “Trust in love”) and Kevin in cheeky innuendo. Veronica was a font of advice, dismissing Betty's worries with an imperious wave: _What if I’m frigid? What if I do it wrong? What if I’m ugly without my clothes on? What if I’m too shy to look at him?_

Betty thought she was prepared. She knew there was a learning curve, so she planned to study his favorite moves like SAT problem sets. But it turns out there’s no such thing as perfect technique, and figuring out what satisfies her is just as important as discovering what satisfies him. The pleasure feeds on itself: the more time they spend in bed, the more time she wants to spend there, and the more possessive she becomes of his body. He is hers to touch, casually, boldly, hers to bite and scratch in ecstasy. She sprawls across his bed, she steals his clothes, she raids his fridge to make breakfast in the morning.

And she’s shameless. He’s made her shameless. In the trailer, Kevin eyed her messy hair and the bruise on her neck and whispered, “Oh, good girls go bad!” He was gleeful, and she was smug.

After, Jughead dozes, naked, on her rainbow quilt, and Betty sits at her desk, taking notes on former residents of the convent. The house is silent. The street is silent. There’s no Alice, banging around in the kitchen. Polly isn’t flirting on the phone with Jason. Archie isn’t strumming his guitar. There’s no Hal, listening to baseball on the radio. There's only blue dusk and Jughead’s breathing.

When her phone rings, Betty startles. “Five more minutes,” Jughead mumbles, covering his head with a pillow.

“Kevin?” 

“Betty, thank God. I need your help.” 

“What’s wrong?” Betty shakes Jughead awake and rushes to her closet, putting the phone on speaker so she can dress. It must be something serious, or else he would have texted.

“I was trying to get Moose to stop, so I told him how dangerous these drugs are. I told him there’s no way to know what he’s snorting, and that I heard the other gang had special stuff that can kill you. I thought he’d be more careful, but he said, ‘You only live once,’ and now I think he’s trying to find some Ghoulies. I think he's driving drunk. I think he wants to die. Should I call my dad? I don’t want him to get arrested. What should I do?” 

“Ok. Ok. We’re going to go get him. 

“Where could he even be?”

“The Ghoulies have a bar. We can try there.” Jughead is dressing speedily, shaking his head at her and mouthing, “No!”

“Do you have your mom’s car? My dad’s out.”

Betty glances out the window and frowns at the empty driveway. “FP’s truck?” she asks Jughead in a whisper. “Let me put you on hold for a second, Kevin.” 

“Out of town,” Jughead answers. “That’s a sign you should leave the rescue attempts to the Bulldogs. Call Reggie Mantle.” 

“They’d probably egg him on. All that machismo.”

Betty, I know you feel guilty about Moose and Midge, but this isn’t your problem. If he’s bent on self-destruction, you won’t be able to stop him. Take it from me,” Jughead adds bitterly. “I know addicts.”

She squares her shoulders. “He’s Kevin’s boyfriend. I’m going to try.” Then she unmutes the phone and says, “Don’t worry. I can get a car at Fairlane’s. There’s one waiting for a paint job. Just keep calling Moose. I’ve got this under control.” She hangs up and looks pleadingly at Jughead.

“Will you drop me off at the garage?” 

“Will I…” he laughs incredulously, running his hands through his hair. “Obviously I’m coming with you.”

“Won’t that be dangerous for you? Aren’t they the Serpents’ rivals?”

“Dangerous for _me?_ I’d say it’s about as dangerous for me as it is for you two, the prep and the hot blonde cheerleader.”

Betty crosses her arms. “I can handle myself. “

Jughead kisses her. “I told you already: you don’t have to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please let me know what you think or if there's anything you'd like to see more of! <3


	9. the mausoleum

Jughead watches Betty pace in the distance, an uncharacteristically dark shape in her indigo jeans and his green sweatshirt. The hood hides her blonde hair. 

“Come on, Sweet Pea,” he pleads. “We’re only borrowing the car for a couple of hours.”

Sweet Pea’s snort is muffled by the poor connection. “Borrowing? Is that what we’re calling it now? I don’t have the key or the security code, so I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to-which I don’t. I’m surprised he didn’t give it to blondie. She’s already the teacher’s pet.”

Jughead sighs. “And Fangs doesn’t know it either?”

“The boss doesn’t trust snakes around the cash unsupervised. Jug, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Betty and I need a ride to pick up her friend’s boyfriend. They think he’s trying to start a fight at the House of the Dead.”

Sweet Pea is silent for a long moment, and Jughead kicks a pebble across the lot. “And the friend’s name?”

“Kevin Keller,” Jughead mumbles.

“And the boyfriend?”

“Moose Mason. Which is why we need a big car. We aren’t going to be able to shove a high football player into the cramped backseat of a sedan.”

“So you’re telling me the Sheriff’s kid wants you to protect a Bulldog? A Bulldog who’ll come back to buy Jangle from us tomorrow. He’ll knock himself unconscious faster than you can say ‘Watch out for that tree.’”

“Look, I know how it sounds, ok. But think about it this way,” Jughead says, worrying the brim of his hat. “Keller will owe us a favor, and we’ll have retained our loyal customer.”

“It sounds fucking crazy, that’s what it sounds like. How much can Keller’s kid help us, really? He graduated from Riverdale High, he’ll be in some shiny college town by fall. And do you really think they’re going to save Moose Mason from the Ghoulies, only to leave him for the snakes to feed on? No way. They’re going to force him into rehab.” Now Betty is frowning at her phone. Jughead hopes Kevin is texting her assurances that he can solve his own problems, because Sweet Pea’s right. 

“I’m guessing that’s a no to coming along?”

“No Serpent stands alone,” Sweet Pea answers. “Fangs and I will meet you at the Greendale border. Worst case scenario, we’ll drag him into the woods and hold him there”

“Thanks, Sweets” Jughead says, hanging up and turning to his girlfriend. 

“He doesn’t have the key.” 

Betty pouts. “Ok. I’ll do it myself. I just feel so guilty. It’s more of a violation, don’t you think?”

“Um. What is?” 

“Breaking in,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. 

“I’m 18, I’m a known gang member, and it doesn’t matter that juvie records are sealed, because everyone in this town remembers the arson conviction. If I get caught stealing a car, I’m going to prison. This is a bad idea.”

She steps closer, putting her hand on his cheek. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Juggie. I didn’t even think of that. Ok, well, you should head to Greendale on your bike while I finish up here.”

“That’s not...what I meant.” Jughead pinches the bridge of his nose _._ “I’m with you. Can we just be careful?”

She pats his cheek. “I always am.” Jughead doesn't believe her for a second. Betty slides a bobby pin from her ponytail and twists it; _That can’t possibly work in real life,_ Jughead thinks, but he knows better than to say so.

Then the knob turns, and she grins at him. “Bless these old-fashioned locks,” she says, her satisfied nod wiggling her ponytail. Jughead can’t relax yet; he’s focused on the alarm’s blinking light.

Betty hums, and whatever she types into the keypad triggers an ominous beep. She tries again. She tries a third time. Jughead holds himself completely still, as though moving a millimeter would summon the guard, then lets out a breath when the keypad turns black.

“How in the hell…?” In Jughead’s experience, B&E involves window-smashing or hiding in a closet until the place empties out. 

“Packard82,” she explains. “Pet name and graduation year. He wears his RHS championship ring every day, and, well, he loves his dog. He pays a neighbor to keep him company when he’s at work, and he cooks for him, too. I’ve seen them at the butcher-that dog gets the best cuts. Organic, grass-fed, cage-free.”

Jughead laughs. “You’re an enigma, Cooper.” He pulls the hood back over her hair, adding, “And you look gorgeous in my clothes.” 

“Oh, this is nothing,” she says. “Mr. Fairlane probably wouldn’t even press charges, as long as we brought the car back safe. Grundy had a gun in her glove box, so I have a feeling things could’ve gotten dicey if she caught us breaking in.

Jughead stares at her in wonder and trepidation. He’d assumed that the petty scheme against Clayton was a Veronica Lodge production, and the Blossoms strong-armed her into springing Polly from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. He imagined Betty as the researcher, the reconnoiter, the sidekick. Now, he understands why Betty was Kevin’s first call. Betty is the researcher, the reconnoiter, and the ringleader. She’s resourceful, brave, disturbingly single-minded, and her loyalty is ferocious. It worries him. “In unity, there is strength” is a green flag for fistfights and knifefights; Jughead learned that early. 

Betty is approaching a car at the far end of the garage. It’s one of those 1960’s boats with a backseat as big as his couch, and, according to Betty, its only defects are the scratches on its forest green exterior. She sits in the driver’s seat but stops Jughead before he can open the passenger door.

“Take your bike,” she says. “I’m picking up Kevin.” 

“I’ll follow you.” He kisses her through the window. “Don’t get caught.”

She winks. “I never do.”

Kevin is waiting at the corner, dressed in another one of his Mr. Ripley ensembles, and Jughead rolls his eyes. _Dark colors, at least._ Betty hugs her friend tightly before he follows her into the car. 

As they approach the Greendale border, the sky darkens and the air thickens, more smoke than fog. Jughead can barely make out Sweet Pea’s silhouette until he swerves into the parking lot. Keller stands next to the car, stiff and awkward, but Betty strides confidently to his side.

Sweet Pea recognizes the car right away. “Cooper, you are a piece of work. And to think, Toni calls you ‘Prissy in Pink.’” 

“Oh, you have no idea,” Jughead replies, realizing too late that the boys will take it as innuendo. They snicker, but Betty ignores them, her posture and expression emanating intense focus. “Ok, we need a plan.”

“You don’t even have a plan?” Fangs arches his brow.

“This is a little last minute,” Kevin snaps defensively.

“Remind me: why are we doing this again?”

Kevin huffs. “Moose is off the rails. The Bulldogs won’t fight back, because he’s their friend, and everyone on the Northside feels bad about...what happened.”

Jughead rests his hand on Betty’s lower back, and she takes a step closer to him. 

Fangs nods. “That’s why Sweets is the one who does deals with him. He’s lucky he hasn’t been kneecapped. So you can understand why I’m not excited to go on this rescue mission.”

Betty explains, “The Bulldogs and the Serpents get that taking out Moose Mason, all-American boy and victim of the Black Hood, is a bad move. It’d make the news-it might even go national. He wasn’t close to Jason, but they were teammates, and I have a feeling the Blossoms would get up in arms about it, too, which is not good for business. Do you think the Ghoulies care about any of that?” 

“I know you don’t like him, and he doesn’t deserve our help,” Jughead continues. “But if the Ghoulies put him in the hospital-or worse, we’re going to be the ones taking the heat, because the Serpents are the only gang on the Northside’s radar. They don’t pay attention to what goes on in Greendale. It’s lower risk to talk with Malachi.”

Kevin is glaring at him, and Jughead feels a pang of regret, because Betty told him that Kevin’s heartbroken over Moose Mason’s downward spiral. It’s more important to appeal to the Serpents than it is to coddle Keller, so he keeps his tone unsentimental and his face expressionless. Fangs is nodding thoughtfully, and Sweet Pea doesn’t say anything snide, which means he’s won them over.

“Sweet Pea, you, Kevin, and Betty get Mason to the car.”

“How exactly are we going to do that? Did you bring a carrot and a stick?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead throws up his hands. “Pick him up or drag him if you have to. We’ll distract them, if we can; otherwise, I’ll make a deal.”

“You can’t make any deals without the King’s sayso,” Fangs reminds him.

Jughead scowls. “Dad wants the Serpent Prince? He’s got him.” Then he grabs Betty by the hand and leads her away from the group. “Betty,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you in there.”

“If you’re going, I’m going. This is my mess. I’m not letting you put yourself in danger for me.”

“It’s not your mess!”

“It’s my dad’s, Jug. I can’t live with myself if I don’t try to help the people he hurt. I _need_ to do this, and you need to let me.” She takes off Jughead’s sweatshirt and tosses it to Kevin, squaring her shoulders and tightening her ponytail. Fangs looks askance at her as she comes closer, and it’s only then that Jughead notices the green cartoon snake embroidered on the pocket of her t-shirt. He smirks, raising an eyebrow, and she smiles sheepishly.

“What? I thought I'd better make my affiliation clear.” Jughead pulls her closer to kiss her temple. 

He adjusts his posture as they approach the front door: chin up, spine straight, and he senses her doing the same. The House of the Dead looks less like a bar than a French Quarter mausoleum, its stone facade the color of the Greendale fog. “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here” is written in red paint (or blood) over the entrance, and Betty laughs under her breath.

Jughead introduces himself to the two burly teenagers at the door, relishing their shock when they recognize his name. One watches him intently without moving, like a Buckingham Palace guard, while the other runs off to find Malachi. 

The barroom itself is a cavern: dark wallpaper, dark floors, dark vinyl booths and Gothic chairs, dark goblets in lieu of glasses or mugs, dark liquor on the shelves. The only bright spots are the candles flickering in their iron sconces, the white mannequin that Jughead recognizes as a prop from _A Clockwork Orange_ , and the geometric pattern of skulls on the walls.

Jughead would’ve expected to hear death metal or some Monster Mash compilation, but there’s no music playing. Betty’s shallow breaths are audible in the quiet, so Jughead presses his hand more firmly against her side.

She doesn’t flinch, though, even when Malachi makes his grand entrance, smiling impishly. His studded jacket is unzipped to show off his bare chest and pentagram necklace, and Jughead suppresses an eye roll.

The Ghoulie offers a flamboyant bow, which Jughead acknowledges with a nod, and says, “The Prince of Snakes! An unlooked for honor. I assume you and your...companion...have a very, very good reason for trespassing.”

“I’m not here to cause problems for you. I’m looking for a missing friend, that’s all.”

“None of yours have slithered past the border,” Malachi informs him.

“He’s not a Serpent. He's a Riverdale High School football player. White, brown hair, about 6’4” 300 lbs. Goes by the name Moose-for obvious reasons.” _He’s got the IQ of a moose, too_ , Jughead doesn’t say.

“Yeah, I know him. We had to put him in the dungeon.” He gestures towards an older biker holding an ice pack to his nose. “The boy has a death wish.”

“So we’d be doing you a favor by taking him off your hands.”

He laughs. “Jonesy, you’re supposed to be the smart one!”

“How about this? I’ll send my next 5 customers your way.”

Malachi tsks. “A paltry number.”

“You know I can’t go too high without the King’s approval. Let’s leave the old-timers out of it. They’re so tedious, don’t you think?”

“I doubt Roadkill considers that fair compensation for his busted face. Would you, Roadkill?” he asks without looking over his shoulder.

Jughead concentrates on keeping his voice cool and steady, his posture loose but confident. _Regal._ But before he can make a counter offer, Betty steps forward.

“The décor is unusual,” she says. Malachi tilts his head toward her, his leer turning contemptuous when he spots the cartoon snake on her t-shirt. “It fascinates me,” she continues, ignoring the pressure Jughead is applying to her hip. “You do like gory trophies.” 

He smirks, “It’s aspirational. Greendale has a particular appreciation for the dead. Does it scare you?”

“Don’t you know who I am?” she asks, with an arrogant lift of her chin. Only Jughead can see the goosebumps rising on her arm. He shakes his head slowly, sensing Jughead’s growing tension. “I’m the Black Hood’s daughter.”

There is no sound. There is no movement. There is only a shock and anticipation so powerful that Jughead has to brace himself against it. Betty feels it too; the muscles beneath his hands are stiff, and he longs to massage her shoulder.

“I have trophies-the pen he used to write his manifesto, photographs of him holding his first gun...I’ll make a donation to your death museum, if you hand over the football player.”

Malachi laughs, a maniacal sound, and jerks his head towards the hulking guards. “Wear something lower cut when you make the delivery, won’t you? And black.” 

Jughead scowls, reaching for his switchblade reflexively, though he doesn’t plan to use it, but Betty links her arm with his. “I’ll send a courier in the next day or two.’

“And why should we trust you?”

She arches an eyebrow. “My father always kept his promises. So do I.”

Malachai shakes her hand, moving closer than Jughead would like, and then shakes Jughead’s. “You have a deal, Serpent Prince. Five customers, two trophies.” Then he winks at Betty, ignoring Jughead’s glare. “Come by for a drink sometime,” he says. “You can try our ‘Black Hood.’ It’s a hot toddy with a secret spice.”

The Ghoulies break out in excited conversation, but it can’t drown out the cursing and banging signaling Moose’s arrival. Four bikers carry him outside and dump him unceremoniously in the dirt. Jughead winces at the thud, but his sympathy disappears once he deciphers Moose’s barely coherent ranting. “It should’ve been me” becomes “It should’ve been you” when he spots Betty and Kevin. Sweet Pea and Fangs drag him into the backseat.

“Follow Moose and Kevin home, then drive the car to the garage. Betty and I will move it inside. Thank you, really. I appreciate it.”

“ _We_ appreciate it,” Betty corrects him. Kevin hugs her before he gets in the passenger seat, and says, “Don’t worry, I’m telling my dad and Mr. Mason that he needs actual professional help. And it goes without saying that we’re breaking up. I’ve got hives from the stress, and I refuse to ruin my complexion for him. He was supposed to be a fling!"

“I’m glad, Kev. You deserve better,” Betty replies, waving goodbye.

As soon as they are alone, Jughead asks, “Are you ok? You didn’t have to bring your dad into it. I had it handled.”

She smiles at him tenderly. “Juggie, I know how much you want to distance yourself from your father’s legacy. But you walked in there and played Serpent Prince to keep someone you don’t even like out of trouble. How could I let you carry that weight, when I had the chance to take some of it off your shoulders?” She pulls him towards her by his leather jacket and kisses him. “Besides, it’s a good use of our bad reputations.”

Jughead is reminded that the Serpents, himself included, are profiting from their neighbors’ addictions. He tells himself that, if he wasn’t dealing, someone else would be-probably someone more dangerous. Besides, the Serpents need money to survive, and there aren’t many jobs available for ex-felons in this town-or future felons, as the Northsiders call the Southside kids. Still, it depresses him to know that his wallet is full because of Moose Mason’s PTSD. “I don’t know how much good it did, long-term. He’s acting like a baby Francis Begbie.”

“This could be a wake-up call for his parents. They can get him into rehab.”

Jughead nods, although he doubts Mason will shape up anytime soon. He wonders if Betty has ever gone to therapy. Jughead has never met anyone who carried their grief and horror the way she does, with such poise and quietude, relying on her girl-next-door looks to distract people from her pain. Then again, everyone copes in their own way. Fangs and Sweet Pea are like Moose, seeking out drunken brawls and wild parties. Joaquin runs. Toni spits poison. Gladys cries herself unconscious, and FP drinks himself back in time. Jughead? He withdraws into the darkness, or he sets it ablaze. Tonight, watching her walk fearlessly (eagerly) into danger, he was reminded of himself as a little boy, tossing a lit match onto the dregs of his father’s drug supply. Jughead knows, better than most, how self-loathing and righteousness combine to make a martyr. 

He remembers the waves of fear, exhilaration, and defiant rage that overtook him as he carried the box from the trailer to the lot next to the school. It was easy for Jughead to hide, as a child. At first glance, no one recognized him as the son of a Serpent, let alone one of high rank; he lacked FP’s vitality, handsomeness, and devil-may-care charm. Spindly, pale and anemic, with dark circles under his eyes, Southsiders joked that he was a house elf or the ghost of a Victorian consumptive. The leanness of his frame emphasized his round head and big ears; that’s how he got his nickname. Jughead considered himself best-suited for the shadows-as long as there was enough light for reading.

So he assumed that he could burn the box and sneak away with no one the wiser. He didn’t realize that a fire near a school would inevitably attract notice, or that the parking lot was equipped with security cameras. When he was caught, he seethed with desperate, lonely, righteous fury, although, on the surface, he was silent and cold. He ignored the Sheriff, the social worker, the lawyer, and the judge. He cringed away from his mother’s hysteria. Around the inmates and the guards, he kept his eyes on his feet, avoiding the glares and the brutal overhead lighting. They mostly left him alone, dismissing him as boring and sullen; he learned later that the Serpents paid his bunk mate to protect him. The other boys liked running in the yard, but Jughead preferred staying inside, where a crayon and scrap paper were tucked beneath his fitted sheet. At first, he wrote fairy tales for Jellybean, although she was too young to understand them. A princess befriended forest monsters. A boy punched phantoms with enchanted boxing gloves. A talking sheepdog guarded the trailer park from the curses spit by tailpipes. When he returned home, Gladys scolded him for scaring his sister with his morbid stories, so he whispered them, hiding the pages in his copy of _Matilda._

Jughead wonders, all these years later, if the feelings that led him to light that match ever really went away. 

_This is not the time, and this is not the place,_ he decides, as much as he wants to fret over her, as much as he wants to share his past and invite her to share hers. Instead, he kisses her forehead and hands her a helmet, smiling when she says, “Even if it’s not your favorite role, you play it well.” She kisses his neck. “You looked so good in there.” It amazes him that she shows as much tenderness towards the gangster prince as she does the boy ranting about Sartre, wearing a flower crown.

They speed through the strange veil that marks the divide between Riverdale and Greendale, stopping in front of the garage, where Sweet Pea is smoking a cigarette. 

“Is he angry?” Betty asks.

“Not at you,” Jughead answers. “The Serpents are insular. Our parents are Serpents, our friends are Serpents.” He shifts uncomfortably. “We might hook up with outsiders, but we date and marry Serpents-not me, obviously!” Betty laughs. “Part of this is protection, right? We don’t want to attract a snitch or get attached to someone who’ll disappear at the first arrest. Part of it is habit. Sweet Pea is loyal to me and he’s loyal to you, because he knows how I feel about you, but he resents sticking his neck out for anybody else.”

Betty leans up to kiss his cheek. “Well, I’m thankful for his help. And for yours.” She unlocks the garage and returns the car to its original spot. Jughead doesn’t know much about vintage cars, but he likes the look of this one, especially when Betty’s in the driver’s seat. It’s made for the drive-in, for drinking cherry phosphates, for watching _Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!_ It's made for necking in the backseat.

Betty notices the direction of his gaze and smirks. “It’s a shame we can’t take it for a proper spin,” she says. “A date at the Twilight, like it’s 1965.”

“What would you want to watch?” 

She hums thoughtfully, tracing the hood of the car. “ _Charade_ , maybe. Or _Bonnie & Clyde.” _Then, she reaches for the hem of her shirt and says, “We could always pretend.” By the time he realizes what’s happening, she’s flung her shirt at the workbench and she’s half out of her jeans. He shrugs off his jacket, laughing incredulously when uses his suspenders to tug him on top of her in the backseat.

 _For this,_ he thinks, _I’d risk anything._

—————————————————

He’s playing fetch with Hot Dog, the gang's sheepdog, when FP swerves into the Sunnyside Trailer Park, tires shrieking, shouting, “Get in, now!” Jughead scowls and rolls his eyes before climbing into the truck. 

“What is it, Dad? Update from your latest ‘mission’?” FP has been away for a week. He hasn't bothered returning his son’s calls.

“No, boy. There’s a meeting at the Wyrm about your latest mess.”

Jughead is silent, looking out the window to hide his unease.

In the back room of the bar, Thomas Topaz and Tall Boy are seated on each side of FP’s empty chair. Jughead has to admit that it’s an intimidating set-up. The black banner above their heads depicts a python, mouth open to display its giant fangs, and the Serpent laws are painted on the wall in blood red. 

Sweet Pea, Fangs, and Joaquin are leaving as he enters; the latter two avoid his eyes, but Sweet Pea meets them boldly. Jughead glares at him, jerking his head towards Joaquin to say, “Really? You told _him_?” Joaquin sucks up to FP like a hall monitor to the school principal.

Sweet Pea replies with a glance towards FP’s chair-his throne. Jughead’s seen that look often enough to understand it’s meaning: _I love you, Jug. But this is a hierarchy, and your father is king._

 _This is why I want out_ , Jughead thinks sourly. His Southside friends are loyal to him-but they are loyal to the Serpents first, and that means they are loyal to his father. Toni sides with him occasionally, but he suspects she helps him defy FP in part because she wants to depose FP. And Fred and Archie will back him on everything except Serpent business; he doesn’t even wear the jacket in the Andrews house, because the sight of the patch makes them squeamish. He sighs. _There's no such thing as unconditional, I guess. We’re always hiding some part of ourselves._

The meeting is swift and tense. They call him foolhardy and arrogant, berating him for risking his Serpent brothers as well as the fragile accord. They aren’t interested in excuses or explanations, so he offers none, fidgeting under the disappointment in Thomas’s gaze and ignoring Tall Boy’s obvious contempt. Thomas does most of the talking, and Jughead realizes why when he hears their ruling. 

Jughead Jones is on probation. 

He leaves the Wyrm in daze, ignoring the curious Serpents jostling for his attention. _For the rest of the summer,_ he marvels, _I won’t be a dealer. I won’t be a mule. I won’t be muscle, I won’t be the prince._

The sky is slate grey, but he tilts his head back and closes his eyes as though he’s basking in sunlight. He opens them again when he hears a familiar snicker.

“Hey, Toni,” he says, leaning against the brick wall beside his best friend.

“You got the news?”

“Not what I expected. I would’ve thought Dad would shut me into the tank, not let me out of it.”

“If he did that, he’d be implying that being a Serpent is more of a punishment than being an outcast, and no one would accept that. The rest of us fear exile more than anything else, more than jail, more than death.” With a mischievous grin, Toni continues, “The first time you got dragged in front of the tribunal, and for what? Playing knight in shining armor to Moose Mason’s damsel in distress?”

“I was being a Good Samaritan,” Jughead mumbles. 

“Please. I talked to Fangs. We both know you did it for Betty Cooper.”

“Fangs needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

“You know better than that. It’s one thing to cover for you so you can make googly eyes at the Northside Princess, it’s another to hide a trip to the mausoleum. He and Sweet Pea got their pay docked and they’ll be doing drudge work for a month. That’s punishment enough.”

Jughead scowls, understanding, but not yet willing to forgive. 

“Don’t pout,” Toni says, pinching his cheek. “Come on, let’s go to Pop’s. I’ll buy you a milkshake and tell you about my weekend at Thornhill.” When he cringes, she adds, “I’ll keep it PG for you, virgin.”

Jughead will never admit it-she’d never let him live it down, but he finds Toni’s bizarre dates at the manor immensely entertaining; it’s like his own gothic soap opera. So he pulls her into a half-hug and says, “You know I love a good story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! Please let me know what you think/if there's anything you want to see more of! <3


	10. confessions

A bee buzzes past her ear, and the sun is reddening her nose, but Betty doesn’t notice; her attention is fixed on _The Glass Key_. She only looks up when her mother casts a shadow on the page. 

“I made you some pink lemonade,” she says, setting a tray on the side table. “And here’s your sunscreen. Don’t forget to reapply.” 

Betty thanks her, reaching for the pitcher. “Would you like to join me?”

“It’s too hot. But we can catch up on some TV when you’re done here.” 

They’ve watched a lot of TV this summer. Betty used to binge teen soaps and dating shows with Polly. Betty would roll her eyes, laughing at the plot holes and the pick-up-lines, while Polly swooned and Mom yelled from the kitchen, “You’re killing brain cells!” After her sister left, Betty watched them alone, more out of nostalgia than genuine interest, until, one day, her mother sat on the couch beside her. She touched her hand, understanding, for the first time, that she was lonely, too. Now, TV night is a highlight of her week. Alice’s biting commentary is hysterical. 

After she’s finished the lemonade, Betty stretches, cat-like, and fans herself with Jughead’s paperback.

“Betty Cooper,” Kevin says as he strolls into the yard, “you look like a fashion spread.”

“Presents from Veronica,” she replies, tapping her peach-framed sunglasses and the strap of her yellow romper. She strikes a pose, but can’t hold it for long, breaking into giggles and flopping back into the chair.

“The girl has an eye.”

“How are you feeling, Kevin? You’ve been so mysterious lately.” 

“It’s been a whirlwind,” he sighs, reclining gracefully in the Adirondack. “First, I had to wait for Moose to sober up so I could dump him, then I had to give Dad and Mr. Mason a _very_ edited explanation of what happened, and _then_ , I had to arrange some self-care, so I spent the weekend with a Serpent of my own.”

Betty’s jaw drops. “Fangs?”

“I wonder what his real name is. Do you know Jughead’s? Do they get these nicknames during Serpent initiation? Is this a “Boy Named Sue” situation?”

“Wait, wait, wait, when did this happen? How did this happen?”

“We started talking after we dropped Moose off. Fangs just got out of a crazy off-and-on relationship, so we were commiserating, and one thing led to another... He is _wild_. You wouldn’t expect it to look at him, right? Still waters run deep.”

“So you’re dating a Serpent? What about your Dad?”

Kevin waves his hand dismissively. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, it’s casual.”

Betty furrows her brow. “And you’re ok with that?”

“I’m fine, Betty. Moose was barely my boyfriend, anyway. I got tangled up with him because I missed Midge. I’m not even sure I wanted _him,”_ Kevin continues. “I had this fantasy of dating a football player, and he’s the only hot, well-hung jock at our school who’s into guys.”

This, Betty understands. When she was crushing on Archie, she never asked herself, “Are we right for each other?” She asked, “Am I pretty enough for him? Am I popular enough for him? Do we look good together?” Archie is her best friend-he’s as good-hearted as he is handsome, and he was always her safe place, but Kevin was right when he said Archie is too bland for her. Now she realizes how ridiculous it was to center her romantic fantasies around public opinion. 

Jughead doesn’t care what people say about them. He accepts her as she is-even when she’s morbid and messy, her skin streaked with tears and engine grease.

Kevin deserves that kind of affection. When they talk about romance, Veronica and Kevin add an exclamation point and a capital R; it’s no wonder that Veronica ended up dating the boy who sings her love songs. But Kevin has never dated anyone willing to hold his hand on Main Street, let alone make a grand romantic gesture, and Betty worries that it hurts him more than he lets on. The Sheriff’s son doesn’t tolerate orders or interrogation, though, so she doesn’t push. He’ll talk when he’s ready. 

“So far, I have no complaints. Fangs Fogarty is exactly what the doctor ordered.” Then, grinning mischievously, he asks, “And how’s it going with the Serpent Prince?” 

Betty is quiet for a moment, considering how to answer. Any other day, she’d be waxing poetic. Her boyfriend is beautiful and complicated and sensitive, and he’s so, so good to her; he knows, without her having to ask, when she needs softness and when she needs strength. They are (literal) partners in crime; his creativity and street smarts pair well with her meticulousness and her laser focus. He’s teaching her how to ride his bike, and she’s teaching him how to bake, and she’s never laughed so much with anyone before. His black humor makes it easier to cope with the horror and the panic. 

But she doesn’t want to rub her happiness in Kevin’s face, so instead, she talks about sex, giving as much detail as she thinks Jughead would allow, blushing at Kevin’s gentle teasing. 

“Wait...did I just hear someone inside?” he asks, and she understands his meaning: “Shouldn’t all conversations about your Southside Serpent boyfriend occur at least 5-7 blocks away from your mother and any possible informants?”

“Oh my god! Mrs. Muggs told her! Mom was shockingly relaxed about it.”

Alice had thrown up her hands and said, “At least he hasn’t killed anyone (that we know of) and you’re (probably) not related. Hal loathed Gladys, anyway. Does he drink?” When Betty assured her that Jughead prefers books to liquor, her mom sighed, “Well, here’s hoping he doesn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. Don’t get pregnant or join any gangs,” and poured herself a glass of wine.

Kevin raises his eyebrows. “Wow. Alice Smith, Divorcee is a whole new model,” he says, and Betty nods in emphatic agreement. _For good or for ill,_ she thinks, _nothing will ever be the same._

———————————————————— 

Betty rushes to the Twilight, hair still wet from the shower, hoping to catch Jughead before the show. She waves at the boy working the concession stand, and he waves back, knocking over a stack of cups in the process; she pretends not to notice for the sake of his pride. 

Betty hardly gets second glances here anymore. Maybe they’ve gotten used to her. 

Maybe Riverdale is moving on. 

She climbs the stairs to the projection room, ignoring the “Employees Only” sign, and sets a container full of cookies on the table. Jughead greets her with a playful tug of her ponytail. “You smell like violets,” he says.

“How was your day?” 

“Went to Pop’s to write. I can’t get used to having this much free time.”

Since he discovered she plays fast and loose with the law, Jughead has divulged more about his own crimes-the drug deals and the blackmail, the betting and the burglary. When he told her about the fire, she had to look away so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. 

There is a certain appeal to dating a Serpent. It’s exciting to have a boyfriend who can throw a punch and hide a body. When he walks into a room, older, larger men instinctively defer to him, and Betty feels powerful by association. But then she remembers that he considers the crown more a burden than a gift, and that his status makes him a target. She wants him to be safe. 

She wants him to be free.

“Well, I’m glad that there’s more time for me,” she says. “You’ve been spending a lot of time on the Northside.”

“Pop’s burgers _are_ Riverdale’s greatest attraction.” 

Betty waits, because he’s tapping her hip in a tense and jerky rhythm.

“Also…things are kind of awkward on the Southside. Everyone’s heard what happened by now, and they’re not happy with me. And I’m not happy with the boys for snitching, even though logically I get it. I get that they had to. Anyway,” he sighs, “maybe it’s a good thing to get a break. A reset.”

Betty flops gracelessly onto their makeshift bed-their sleeping bags, Polly’s comforter, and every pillow they could pilfer. She grabs his hand to pull him down beside her. 

“Maybe you can meet on the Northside? You can stop by the garage sometimes. Toni’s here with Cheryl, right? And Fangs will probably be around more, now that he’s hooking up with Kevin.”

Jughead scowls. He blames Kevin for their adventure at the House of the Dead. Betty can’t help but find Jughead’s rivalry with Malachi a little funny. He ranted for half an hour about “those vampire wannabes” and their “pretentious cemetery bar.” “It’s not even scary,” he sneered. “It’s a Tim Burton ride at Disneyland, compared to Thornhill.” She had to fight the impulse to point out that the Serpents’ brand is nearly as absurd: the grunge uniform of flannel and jeans, the serpentarium, the snake murals and banners, the fake snake facts (only the earnestness in Sweet Pea’s voice when he said, “A Serpent never sheds its skin” kept her from bursting into laughter.), and, of course, the “y”’s in the bar’s name.

“Yeah, I guess I could stop by the garage. Seeing you in your overalls and bandana is always a pleasure.” She blushes, pushing at his shoulder, and he catches her hand, fingertips sliding over her palms while she tries not to flinch. “I’m just glad they’ve given you proper gloves. I was worried you were tearing up your hands.”

For a moment, Betty considers lying. She’s never told anyone about her bad habit. Her family surely knows but have never acknowledged it-no surprise, considering the Coopers’ talent for toxic denial. Her friends notice, of course, and they support her: they forced her fists open when she started to clench them, distracted teachers so she didn’t have to raise her hand, and kept her away from Cheryl during cheerleading practice. But she’d hoped she had more time before Jughead found out.

He’s never let her down, though. Not once. So she takes a deep breath and tells herself, _He won’t judge. He won’t run. He wants you._

“The cuts aren’t from the garage,” she admits, and he shifts closer, unconsciously reacting to the tension in her voice. “I made them. There’s something...really wrong with me, Jug. Sometimes there’s so much feeling, it’s like my body isn’t big enough to contain it, and pain is the only way I can get it out.” He links his fingers with hers and she shrugs, trying and failing to sound casual. “I’m just crazy, I guess.”

“Betty, we’re all crazy. Of course you feel things intensely, considering what you’ve been through.”

“That’s just it, Jug. I’ve done it for years. Even before everything happened with my dad. My mom put so much pressure on me, and I’m only now realizing that Dad did, too, in a quieter way, and Polly was in her own world and Cheryl was bullying me, and I just...I don’t know. I couldn’t hack it. I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You _are_ strong. You’ve suffered so much, and you survived with your heart intact. You didn’t lash out at people because you were in pain. You stayed kind. That takes strength.” She sniffles, and he wipes away a tear. “We can find you help, if you want. You _deserve_ help. You deserve to be happy.” He lifts her fists to his mouth and kisses her palms. “I’m so grateful for you, Betty. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Too overwhelmed to speak, she tucks herself under his arm. She smiles when she feels him kiss the top of her head, and they sit in peaceful silence until the lot begins to fill with cars. Jughead stands with obvious reluctance.

“I didn’t even check the marquee when I came in,” Betty says.

He grins. “You’ll have to wait for the reel, then.”

When she recognizes the montage of Depression-era photos on the screen, Betty claps in delight. It’s _Bonnie and Clyde._ Jughead nudges her when Faye Dunaway asks, “What line of work are you in? When you’re not stealing cars?” and winks when Warren Beatty says, “I bet you’re a...movie star! No, a lady mechanic!” When she giggles, he smiles, pleased, and hands her a cookie.

After the movie, Jughead lies down on the pile of blankets, and she rests against him, lulled by his heartbeat.

“It’s so much better with you here,” he whispers, and she clutches him tighter, remembering that these rooms were his hide-away from his father and the Serpents. _I wish I could have given you a home,_ she thinks with sudden desperation, mourning everything he never had, everything she lost. _I wasted so much time_ , she thinks, _watching from the side lines_. She leans over to kiss him with an urgency that would feel out of place if he didn’t respond with equal intensity. He deepens the kiss when she twirls her fingers through his hair, holding her wrists down when she twists them above her head. He caresses her neck when she bares it, taking cues she didn’t realize she was giving.

She doesn’t want to leave him. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not when summer ends. 

_Should I tell him?_ she asks herself, as they ride his motorcycle back to her house. _I told him about Dad. I showed him my palms. He knows I trust him, that I love his writing and his humor and his looks and his company. Should I tell him I love him?_ She wonders if he figured it out before she did, the same way he read her body.

But she’s afraid to speak the words. _It must be obvious, so why hasn’t he mentioned it? What if he’s trying to spare my feelings?_ He likes her, and he is attracted to her-he shows that in a thousand ways-but, if her friends are to be believed, love is so much more than that. 

When Archie told her that she was “too perfect” to love, a thousand other moments suddenly made sense. Cheryl, sneering at her modest outfits, calling her “a wet match.” Polly saying, “You’re too young. You’d never understand," while she gossiped with girls Betty's own age. Reggie and Chuck, jeering at her for being a prude, “the boring Cooper.” Veronica and Kevin, with their well-intentioned “good girl" jokes. 

Betty understood then that she did not inspire passion. She could make a man want to bring her home to Mom. She could make a man want to marry her, have children with her, show her off at work functions and church. But he'd placate her with kitchen appliances and missionary sex so he could spend weekends with a sultry brunette.

Betty had made peace with a passionless future, hoping instead for contentment and affection-and then her father was arrested, and even that was taken from her. She became Death Princess, Killer Spawn, Daddy Issues, Murder Bait. Boys flirted with her to score points in the true crime edition of the Bulldog Playbook. 

It’s hard to imagine being loved. 

It’s hard to believe she is lovable. 

_I’ll keep quiet,_ she decides, leaning up to kiss Jughead goodbye. The living room lamp clicks on, illuminating their sliver of the sidewalk. 

“That’s my cue,” Jughead says ruefully, walking backwards towards his motorcycle.

Her mother’s silhouette is visible through the curtains, and Betty remembers the shape of her when Hal lifted her by the throat. She glances at the front door, the graffiti barely visible in the shadows. And then she looks at Jughead. He’s here. They’re alive.

So she runs back to him before he can straddle the bike. “I have to tell you something,” she says. “You don’t have to say anything back, but...I just thought you should know…” she takes a deep breath, “Jughead, I love you.” 

His smile is immediate and blinding. He pulls her towards him so quickly she stumbles, but she doesn’t mind, because he murmurs against her lips, “Betty, I love you, too.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you think! <3


	11. rough drafts

Jughead Jones is in love, and it’s nothing like he imagined.

He thought he’d be the brooding sort of lover, quietly devoted, full of yearning. He’d write love poems, but he'd hide them in a box under his bed, to be published posthumously. 

Jughead had imagined himself in love, but he never imagined he’d be loved back.

Sometimes, it still seems too good to be true, and he has to remind himself to review the evidence. Exhibit A: 1 text thread, peppered with “I love you’s.” Exhibit B: 1 thoughtfully edited manuscript, decorated with red hearts. Exhibit C: 1 jar of homemade cookies. Exhibit D: 1 violet-scented sheet. Exhibit X: The look on her face when she sees him-the bright eyes, the involuntary smile, preserved on film and set as his lockscreen. 

His drafts are written the old-fashioned way, on the typewriter Betty gave him. He isn’t composing poetry, but he is working on something new, because there’s too much hope in his heart for noir, these days. It’s a mystery, of course, but the romance is as central as the murder and the drag race. 

The Black Hood piece is on indefinite hiatus. When he started it, he thought, _I’m the only one who can tell this story right: an impartial observer with the passion of a true crime junkie, familiar with the town and all the major players._ He told himself, _The murders changed Betty’s life. The better I understand what happened, the better I’ll understand her._ But it only helped him understand her victimhood. After a while, he found himself separating the real Betty from Betty the subject, Daughter #2. His Betty is too vivid and complex to be cast as a side character in Hal Cooper’s story. She’s so much more than the wounds on her hands.

Her pain hasn’t made her bitter, either. Betty cares as much as he does about saving their town, and she isn’t intimidated by a mystery. It still amazes him that he has a girlfriend whose ideal date is an investigation. On Sunday morning, while the nuns were at mass, they drove to the convent to explore. Betty took the wheel so Jughead could finish his coffee, and, when she sang along to the radio, her ponytail swinging to the beat, he smiled despite the early hour. They parked on a side street, and Jughead left his Serpent jacket in the car, hoping to remain inconspicuous. He felt exposed in more ways than one as he crept along the border of the property. At Betty's insistence, he climbed a tree to photograph the roof and upper floors, grumbling all the way up. 

Betty, on the other hand, was wearing her Sunday school best: a knee-length dress with a Peter Pan collar, her golden key replaced by a golden cross. When Jughead worried she’d attract too much attention, she assured him, “I’m covered up enough to pass for a good Catholic, so the staff should be comfortable talking to me. Besides, I picked this outfit because it fades in the background. Disney World paints the backstage areas this color. It’s called ‘go-away green.’” Jughead deferred to her expertise, though he can’t imagine Betty ever fading into the background.

While Jughead waited nervously by the truck, Betty chatted with the staff about her friend “in trouble.” Jughead had been surprised that Betty didn’t already know the ins and outs of the place, considering the weeks her sister spent there. “Polly stayed in her room,” she explained, “and she said the nuns never told her who’d be raising the twins. They just lectured her about Mary Magdalene. My mom doesn’t know much about the place, either, because Dad made all the arrangements. He could be very convincing.” Chilled, Jughead didn’t ask anything more.

Overall, the mission was a success. According to the clerk, the “darling orphans” are raised by members of the church, and the “troubled girls” repent by doing odd jobs for local Catholics. “I think we have enough to ID some Mercy girls,” Betty said with a satisfied nod. “I’m sure a few will agree to be interviewed.”

“That’s all you, Betts. I’ll come up with questions, I’ll write the report, but you’re the people person.” 

With an opaque glance, she replied, “Depends on the people. You’ll have to be the second string.”

They also debunked the rumor that a tunnel connects the convent to Fox Forest. According to Kevin’s not-so-credible source, inmates traveled through the tunnel to fuck townies, then snuck back in for conversion therapy. Jughead had scoffed, and Betty had been skeptical, too, wondering why they didn’t use the tunnel to get help.

Jughead is reviewing their case notes on his living room floor when Betty arrives, carrying a tray of milkshakes and four take-out bags from Pop’s. 

She pecks him on the cheek and says, “I told Archie to pick up some Italian beef. I thought we could all eat dinner together, like we’re on a double date at the diner.”

“You know me, I’ll never turn down a burger.” And by the time Archie and Veronica’s faces depixelate on his laptop screen, he’s halfway through his first. Betty sits on the couch beside him, sipping delicately at a strawberry milkshake.

Veronica’s cry of “Bughead!” drowns out everyone else’s greetings. “I _knew_ it,” she says. “Didn’t I tell you, Archie?” Then she raises a brow. “Don’t think I missed all those years of heart-eyes, Torombolo. I saw you peeking at us over your laptop from the back booth.” He ducks his head bashfully, and she smirks. “I never thought you’d have the guts to make a move.”

“I’m happy for you guys,” Archie interrupts, his expression sincere, and Jughead exhales in relief.

Archie and Veronica recount their Chicago adventures-museum days and fancy dinners, baseball games and boat rides; Veronica’s name-dropping has Jughead suppressing an eye-roll, but Betty oohs and aahs. Jughead and Betty describe their investigations, glossing over the petty crimes, and Archie’s brow furrows in that old familiar way. The next time they talk privately, Jughead's getting another “watch out for Betty” speech, that's for sure. The first time Archie asked, Jughead thought he wanted him to protect her from the world. Now he understands that Archie was asking Jughead to protect her from herself. 

The others don’t talk much about their Bulldog friends, not wanting Jughead to feel left out, but he’s acutely conscious of the differences between them. When they were in the library, studying for finals, he was playing pool at the Whyte Wyrm, and when they were on the football field, he was selling Jingle Jangle for their after parties. Sensing his discomfort, Betty rests her head on his shoulder and says, “I wish you had gone to school with us, Jug.”

“It doesn’t sound like my scene. I’d probably have been the misfit who eats lunch alone.” He hopes they can’t hear the longing beneath the self-deprecation.

Veronica looks poised to agree, but Betty and Archie reply in unison, “No way. You’d sit with us.” The warmth stays with him long after Betty leaves his side.

——————————

Toni’s off with Cheryl, FP’s at the Wyrm, Betty’s out dancing with Kevin, and the boys are watching some sporting event, so Jughead is spending the evening writing. He’s on a spree worthy of Kerouac. 

At first, he ignores the knocking, but it shows no sign of stopping, so he stomps to the door. When he flings it open, his irritation disappears, because its Betty, and she looks like a dream. Her pink dress is so skimpy that it takes him a moment to notice the black smudges around her bloodshot eyes and the powderless streaks on her cheeks. Her fists are tightly clenched.

“Betty, baby, what happened? Are you ok?

She dodges his outstretched hands, pushing past him with surprising strength, and heads straight to his typewriter. Rifling through the pile of stories, she asks, “Where is it?”

He frowns, befuddled, and she snaps, “Don’t lie to me. Where’s this so-called masterpiece, the one you used me for?”

Sudden dread makes him nauseous, but he walks over anyway, flipping through the pages until he finds the chapter. _Too good to be true,_ he thinks miserably. “I started it for the _Red & Black _, and I never planned on finishing it. I gave it up, I promise.” 

She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t say anything at all. She carries it to the kitchen counter and sits down, unzipping her gold sequin clutch and pulling out her red pen-a gift from him, not so long ago. She’s moved the chair so he cannot see her face, but her posture is grotesquely perfect. Jughead leans against the opposite wall, amazed that his hands are steady, despite the fear and despair churning his stomach. _Practice,_ he supposes.

The page blooms red. The pen scratches until he hears a tear, and he flinches, because this is a new way for her to cut herself, and he feels the cut in his own heart. 

He doesn’t interrupt, because he doesn’t think he has the right, so he stands still, wracking his brain for a way to fix this. But he’s too overwhelmed to strategize, and his brain shuts down completely when she shoves the stack of paper against his chest. He holds it gingerly, like a weapon.

“It’s good,” she says, in a hard voice he’s never heard from her before. “I guess I should be flattered that my life inspired such a masterwork.”

“I never used you, Betty. Never. I’ve been pining over you since middle school, for God’s sake. I just never thought someone like you would give me the time of day until you sat across from me at Pop’s. It was a coincidence that we got together after the murders, that’s all.”

She taps a paragraph circled in red. “Then what’s this?” She’s marked her own words, a memory of her father shared while they cuddled in his bed.

“I was never going to publish it,” he replies. “Never. Not after I knew you. It was more like...like practice. An exercise.”

“It’s very polished, for an exercise. I barely had to make any corrections, although you still need to cut down on those semicolons. It would make an impressive writing sample.”

He wonders if he had been readying it, subconsciously, for some faceless admissions committee. The pages scatter on the floor. He opens his mouth to deny it, but she waves her hand sharply to quiet him.

There are angry red crescents on her palm.

He reaches for her, but she steps back, continuing, “If it was for your eyes only, it would be a diary entry.” Her breath hitches. “You’re just like Malachi and all those creeps on the crime forum. You thought my family was some kind of metaphor- like the people my father killed are less important than whatever grander message you could find in what he did. Like _I_ was less important. He’s not a trope. He’s my Dad. And I’m not a trope.” Her voice cracks. “You said you saw me as Betty.”

“I do. I do! What I wrote...it wasn’t about you. It wasn’t real. That’s not your story.” He raises his hands, palms out. “I know that. I promise.”

“Why didn’t you tell your own story, then? Or is it too prosaic? Suburban serial killers, they’re rare, but gang members, well, they’re a dime a dozen.” He inhales sharply at her cruel sneer, a look he’s only ever seen in his nightmares. “But then, you’re not just any old gang member, are you? The weirdo, right? As much of a rara avis as Hal Cooper. The brilliant, sensitive artist in the patch jacket. I bet they’d eat it up.”

He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. “Ok. Yeah, that’s what I am. Fine. I’m a coward, just because I didn’t want to cut a vein and bleed onto the page. I wanted to get out and I was told, over and over, that this was my ticket. I’d write Riverdale’s _In Cold Blood_ -and you read those books too, Betty, I know you do-and I’d make it out. I didn’t think about what it all meant, at first. But I did in the end! I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.” His voice softens. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you,” he is pleading, though he’s certain it’s futile. _It always is_. He feels her brittle laugh in his chest and rubs his sternum. 

“You made me believe it.” She shakes her head and whispers. “Or maybe I made myself believe it, because I wanted it so badly. I never learn my lesson.”

She holds out her hand, and he grasps it, hoping against hope that she’ll step closer, that she’ll let him kiss her, but she only looks at him with a resignation that is more terrifying than rage or betrayal. 

When she walks out, he does not follow. He stands amid the red-streaked pages and stares at the drops of blood on his palm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think! <3 <3 <3


	12. zelda fitzgerald

The quilt covers her like a shroud. Betty shuts her eyes against its vibrant pattern: pink swirls like marble tile, yellow circles like vanity lights, red dots like the sequins on Cheryl Blossom’s dress. Pink, yellow, red-the colors of the moment she discovered another love was a lie.

When she walked into the ladies’ room, she’d been laughing. She stopped short when she recognized the girls at the sink: her former cheerleading teammates, Ginger and Tina, were applying mascara, and HBIC Cheryl was painting her lips crimson. 

Cheryl met Betty’s eyes in the mirror. “Cousin.”

Betty’s first instinct was to brace herself, but then she caught her own reflection-all dolled up in her new dress, wavy hair shining, figure slender and strong. _I’m eighteen_ , she reminded herself. _School’s out. And I’m taller than she is._

Then Cheryl snapped her fingers and jerked her chin, and Tina and Ginger fled. It was the high school locker room all over again. Betty’s never sure how to act around Cheryl. There is mutual respect between them now, even mutual affection; Cheryl is smart, strong, and not as hardhearted as her words would suggest. But the Blossom twins spent too long terrorizing Betty and her friends for her to lower her guard completely. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. Betty anticipated a jibe about the club's declining standards, but it never came. “This saves me the trouble of hunting you down. I wanted to tell you that I have it all under control. Polly told me all about your mother’s latest business venture-oblivious, as usual, to what it would mean for the twins. I despair over her, I really do. One of these days she’s going to fall for a 419 scam or wander into traffic.” 

“Cheryl,” Betty interrupted, raising a brow.

“Anyway. The Blossoms are not going to allow your house to become a macabre monument. Our twins won’t shiver in the shadow of their family tree’s rotten branch. The sooner your father fades into obscurity, the safer they’ll be, and I’m going to protect them, no matter what it takes.”

“Thank you,” Betty said softly. “Really.”

“And if anyone tries to print your hobo’s tawdry little tale, we’ll put a stop to it.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, he never told you? I assumed you were looking for a rebound, since you’re wearing a fuck-me dress out clubbing with a gay.”

“Told me..?” 

“Jughead Jones was investigating the murders for his school paper. He’s written a few articles about the Black Hood already, though they never saw the light of day, since your father shot the advisor. According to Antoinette, whom I sent home tonight because I am _very displeased_ , he’s working on a novel, and she says it could be a success, as difficult as that is to believe. It’s one of those dreary ‘ripped from the headlines’ stories. You’re the source.” 

Betty didn’t feel the hit until Cheryl added, “I’m disappointed in you for falling for it. Well, you have me here to avert catastrophe, at least, unlike Polly, who really should’ve asked me to monitor her birth control pills. I hope you’ve been taking yours; I’m assuming, based on your vulgar little displays at Pop’s, that you are sleeping with him. I don’t see the appeal-of either of you, even if you have slimmed down since sophomore year, but I suspect he appreciated the side benefits, and I hope you did too. I’d hate for there to have been no compensation.”

Betty tried to breathe away the panic, but it was futile, so she ducked her head, mumbling a thank you-goodbye that Cheryl acknowledged with a wave. She dragged Kevin off the dance floor, and they’d barely made it through the door before she started crying. She stumbled in the parking lot, and he wrapped his arms around her, clutching her tighter when she said, “It wasn’t real. He doesn’t love me.” 

As soon as she was calm enough to stand, she decided to confront Jughead. Kevin drove her to the trailer park, even though he thought it was a terrible idea. Afterward, he took her to his place, poured her a cup of chamomile tea, and listened to her autopsy her relationship. Jughead’s pleas and justifications were a blur, but her own words on the page remained hideously clear. 

“He’s right,” she realized, resting her forehead on the Kellers’ kitchen table. “I was the one who walked up to him. I was the one who offered to fix his bike. I kissed him first, I straddled him in the bedroom, I brought up labels. I threw myself at him! I handed him the story on a silver platter. His big move was holding my hand.”

“You went after what you wanted. That’s _not_ shameful, even if he’s not that into you,” Kevin said, obviously thinking of Moose. “And it doesn’t excuse him.”

“I guess Cheryl’s right, too. It isn’t as though he didn’t pay me back, in his own way.” She laughed harshly. He gave her thoughtful presents, lavish compliments, and mind-blowing sex, and he was her ally on rescue missions and investigations. _Maybe fake love is the most a girl like me can ask for_ , she thought. 

Kevin sighed, “Boys are stupid and ungrateful.” He listed his own romantic disappointments with a dark humor that was oddly comforting. Moose, in his rush to ‘hide the evidence,’ slipped like a vaudevillian on a banana peel. An off-Broadway actor Kevin met online turned out to be an Ohio housewife. A one-night-stand, mistaking a squirrel for a peeping Tom, bolted before Kevin could untangle his pants from the branches. 

“Whether Jughead loves you or not,” he told her. “ _you_ need to love yourself. _You_ need to see yourself as more than Hal’s daughter.” 

She recites it like an affirmation: _I am more than Hal Cooper’s daughter._

Betty’s mother raps on the open door and asks, “Aren’t you due at the garage?” 

She groans, throwing off the covers to reveal that she’s fully dressed for work.

“I’ll pour you a cup of coffee, if you think you’re up for it.” 

Betty hasn’t left her room all week, faking sickness to sleep until late afternoon. She reread _The Secret of the Old Clock_ , scrolled through photos of corgi puppies, and binged _The Great British Baking Show._ She traced the letters carved in her windowsill until splinters shredded her fingertips.

At the garage, she speaks as little as possible. She avoids eye contact with Sweet Pea, who watches her warily, asking, “You and Jones go underground or something?” and accepting her terse, “No.”

 _Has Jughead been hiding too?_ she wonders, ashamed to find that the idea gives her pleasure. He’s only reached out once since that awful night in his trailer, texting her a simple: “I’m sorry. I love you.”

Archie would know how he’s doing, but she can’t bear to ask, because she doesn’t want him stuck in the middle. During their last call, he insisted, “Jughead loves you. He’s not deceitful. He’s just not capable of it.” 

Veronica snapped, “Artists who mine their paramours’ lives for inspiration are heartless hacks, even the lauded ones like F. Scott Fitzgerald. I’ll never forgive him for stealing Zelda’s diaries.”

“Ronnie, Jughead’s a good writer, he just made a mistake, and he isn’t, like, a real author, so nobody saw it anyway.” Ignoring her scoff, Archie asked, “When are you going to see him?” 

Veronica answered for her. “She’s not going to see him. She’s going to rest. We’ll be home soon, and I’ll take care of it.” Archie sputtered, and Veronica turned her hand toward his face, not looking at him when she repeated, “I’ll take care of it.”

Betty doesn’t want to mar their summer with her tears, but she can’t wait to see them in person. She’s so lonely, and she's so confused. 

Jughead was the one she called when she needed saving, and she wishes she could call him to save her now. _Why won’t he call me?_

After work, Betty heads for the backyard, hearing a Springsteen song crackling on the radio. As expected, Fred is sitting in a lawn chair, drinking a bottle of root beer. His smile is an immediate comfort. It makes her think of Christmas trees, water guns, and cheers at football games. 

“Haven’t seen much of you this summer,” he says, inviting her to sit beside him.

“Oh, I guess there’s just been a lot going on.” _Fred must have been lonely, too,_ she realizes with a guilty pang.

“It had to be nice to get away.” He smiles, teasing. “And I noticed you’ve been seeing a lot of Jughead Jones.”

She hugs her knees. “Not anymore. It turns out I was just the Black Hood’s daughter to him.”

“Well, now, I don’t believe that.”

“No, it’s true. It made me interesting, I guess.”

Fred laughs softly. “That boy was interested in you long before any of us knew about your Dad. He tried to be sneaky, but it was obvious-except to Archie, you know how Archie is. Me and Mary used to joke about it. Remember when you were going through your Nancy Drew phase? He begged Mary to take him to the library. He’d sit out here with that book cover facing your yard, hoping it would catch your attention.”

Shocked, she wonders, _How could I have missed that? How much good have I missed?_

Then she deflates, sighing, “Things change.”

“Not that much. I don’t believe it. When he dropped you off on that bike of his, he looked at you with stars in his eyes, the same as always.” 

Leaning back to admire the darkening sky, Fred continues, “Jughead’s a sensitive kid. He’s had a rough go of it. He wants to do what‘s right, but sometimes, he sabotages himself, because he doesn’t think he deserves good things.” He turns toward her. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

She ducks her head, running her thumb along her bandaged palm.

“Do you remember what we talked about when we were putting that stake in the garden?”

Betty nods. She'd said, “I toss and turn at night wondering how Dad could do it. How I never noticed. Mom and I are supposed to be these great investigators.”

“It’s different when the mystery's in your own house,” Fred replied. “And you’ll never understand your dad for the same reason that you want to understand him: you care about him. He doesn’t know how to care that way. You’re kind, Betty, and you believe in the people you love. That’s a good thing.”

Fred continues, “I think you and Jughead have a lot in common, and, if you try, you might find yourself understanding where he’s coming from.”

Betty wants to believe him, but she's terrified she'll never be able to tell when someone she loves is lying.

—————-

Archie and Veronica’s homecoming is going to be the event of the summer: The Lodges are throwing a fete at the Pembrooke, and Fred is hosting a barbecue at the Andrews’ house. Betty is in charge of the barbecue menu, as she has been since middle school, when Mary left and Fred reverted to his bachelor diet of cheese puffs and frozen pizza rolls. She won’t be able to compete with the Lodges’ Paris-trained personal chef, but she hopes to make a respectable showing, so she’s been practicing each dish. She’s making the bread from scratch, because the kneading is soothing.

Alice is baking the key lime pie under duress. She resents that the couple are going to college when her honor student daughters are not. To her surprise, Betty appreciates her mom’s tart remarks. She’s secretly a little jealous that Archie and Veronica are off to college without her, and it helps to hear her mother describe her as “a true intellectual” and “an admission committee’s dream.” She hasn’t thought of herself as bright or ambitious in so long.

 _Who am I?_ she wonders. For most of her life, determined to become the perfect girl-next-door, she had tried to fix or hide her imperfect parts. Betty had the fluid adaptability of a practiced people-pleaser, and it left her wavering like water. The world around her was no more stable, as it turned out. 

Now, Betty wants to be steady. She wants to be sure of herself, because Kevin is right: her opinion is the only one that should matter. But it’s hard to imagine having that kind of self-confidence. 

Then again, Betty couldn’t imagine being loved, and, for a moment at least, she had lived like she was.

Despite her best efforts, she thinks of Jughead at least a hundred times a day. She dwells on those sweet things he said, and those last bitter ones. She hears Cheryl’s words, and Fred and Archie’s, and Kevin and Veronica’s. Sometimes, she covers her ears against the din, so she doesn’t torment herself with the question, _Who is he, really?_

Betty tells herself, _Get it together_. She wants to be composed when she sees Jughead at the party. Veronica offered to cut him from the guest list, but Betty couldn’t bear to deny Archie (or Jughead) their last hurrah. She hopes Kevin will invite Fangs so Jughead can stay in the Serpents’ corner while she mixes with the River Vixens. 

Her phone beeps, and a series of emoji flash on the screen: airplane, pink heart, purple heart, champagne toast, firework, diamond, bee. A car door slams, and she unties her Swiss dot apron, stepping outside to see Archie and Fred carrying the luggage. Fred waves and Archie shouts, “Hi, Betty!” Veronica walks straight to the Coopers’.

She grabs Betty’s hand, tsking when she feels the bandage, and leads Betty upstairs as if the house belongs to her. When Betty attempts a “How was your trip?,” Veronica shakes her head sharply, sitting on the bed and motioning for Betty to sit beside her. 

“Never mind that,” she says. “Tell me how you are.”

 _I’m fine,_ Betty thinks. _I’m working, I’m cooking, I’m getting things done. I’m getting over it._ But the words don’t make it past her lips, because, as soon as she meets her friend’s sympathetic gaze, her throat closes up and her hands start to tremble. Sorrow doubles her over, but Veronica lifts her up, wiping tears and flour from her cheeks. Veronica hugs her, and the flour sticks to her black blouse.

“I’m never getting out,” Betty cries, certain, now, that she’ll be stuck forever. Stuck in Riverdale. Stuck in heartbreak. 

Veronica kisses her temple and promises, “You will. You will.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think! (And if you thought Kevin's post-breakup pep talk was inspired by Leslie Knope on Parks & Rec, you were right)


	13. motorcycles

The worst of it is, Jughead saw it coming. 

He could’ve stepped back and dodged the hit, but he leaned into it, and he’s suffering now. 

The worst of it is, Betty’s suffering too. 

It was inevitable that Betty would find out the truth. Toni tells Cheryl Blossom everything, aside from the Serpent business, and Cheryl delights in spilling Riverdale’s secrets and sins. 

It was inevitable that Betty would leave him. He’s never been worth staying for. Jughead’s always known he wasn’t meant for love.

After Betty left the trailer, Jughead lay in his bed like it was a coffin, clutching the Black Hood chapter to his chest. He wished he could hold her pain for her. He didn’t have to muffle his crying, because FP was out again, and his friends know better than to interrupt writing night. It could’ve been minutes or hours before he composed himself enough to stand.

The stack of paper was too thick to fit in his pocket, so he held it in his hand, tightly, so it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze. There was music in the air, because Sunnyside parties on Saturday nights, and he felt the bass pounding between his shoulders. An unfamiliar voice hailed him from a fire escape, but he didn’t nod or smile or wave. He walked to the banks of the Sweetwater River, and he built a fire-carefully, the way Archie taught him, after he got back from Boy Scout Camp. 

He tore each sheet in half, one by one, and placed the pieces on the branches. Then he flicked open his silver lighter, and he set it ablaze. The lighter was a birthday gift from his father; FP winked and said, “Sixteen’s old enough not to get caught.” 

Jughead waited there for hours, until the sun was shining and the flames had burned to ash. It was then that he powered on his phone and saw the texts from Toni: “I wanted to brag to my girlfriend about my genius friend, that’s all.” “Cheryl made so many jokes about the Black Hood and the Coopers, I forgot he’s the twins’ grandfather.” “Maybe they’ll get over it. I still think the world should hear your voice.” Any other day, he would’ve railed against the Blossoms for hindering free expression, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about the ethics of censorship anymore. 

He texted Betty, but she didn’t respond.

Jughead wandered by the river for a while, wrung out and lonely, before returning home. Although no blood had dripped on the floor, the trailer felt like a crime scene. He went to the Twilight instead, wrapping himself in the blankets he and Betty had used as a makeshift bed, and wondered if he ought to return her sleeping bag and pillows. He decided to wait until she asked-or until they stopped smelling like her.

For days, he didn’t leave the Twilight, except to buy food at the concession stand. He watched movies and slept and watched movies and slept; he woke up exhausted, but at least he did not dream.

He was halfway through _The Big Lebowski_ when the door flung open. “You’re not answering my texts. Are you really that mad at me?” Toni asked.

“No,” he said tiredly. “I’m not mad. It’s normal to want to talk about your friends with your girlfriend. I’ll write something else, something better. Are you ok?”

Toni waved dismissively. “Oh, I think Cher-bear enjoys a little tiff every once in a while. I’d enjoy them more if I wasn’t the one in front of the arrow, but the makeup sex on the archery range is hot.”

Jughead sighed. “That’s good, at least.”

She tilted her head, puzzled. “So this whole hermit routine. It’s about Betty Cooper?”

“Yeah.” He put his head in his hands. “It’s about Betty Cooper.” 

“Oh, Jug. I’m sorry. I thought she was just a fling. Didn’t seem your type, besides the serial killer thing. I thought you’d go for a Lydia Deetz.”

“She was...It. She’s it for me.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“It’s too late,” he said glumly. “She’ll never speak to me again.” 

“At least let me buy you some lunch. You need to eat a vegetable that hasn’t been fried. And you need to shower.”

He let her lead him to the trailer to shower and change clothes. There were reminders of Betty everywhere. Her golf pencil on his nightstand. A soda on that coaster she insisted on using, even though the tabletop was ruined long ago. His green sweatshirt, folded neatly over the back of the chair. Jughead was careful not to look at them. He could hear Toni moving around the kitchen, and he walked back into the living room, wanting, absurdly, to shout, “Don’t touch anything.” She tapped a typewriter key, and he flinched, falling onto the couch with a defeated sigh. 

“We’re going the Wyrm,” she decided. “You need to loosen up.”

“I’m not drinking my way out of this one,” he replied.

She scoffed. “I know you well enough by now to know that. You need your friends, and you’re a Serpent, even if you are on probation. If Tall Boy has a problem with it, I’ll make him back off.”

He laughed at the image of Toni taking on a man two feet taller than she is. Of course, she’s tough enough. She’s the sort of python who’d go after a crocodile or die trying.

Toni banged the table in emphasis, hitting metal with the side of her fist-coins and something else, something that had him jumping to his feet.

“Don’t move!” he snapped, and Toni raised her hands and stepped back.

He picked up the three bobby pins as though they were twenty-four karat, sliding them onto the brim of his hat for safekeeping. 

“Jug, let me talk to Cheryl. I can talk to Betty, even.”

“Leave her alone,” Jughead said firmly.

Toni rolled her eyes, but did not argue. Before they could walk into the bar, a black town car rolled to a stop in front of them, and an old man hopped from the driver’s seat to open the rear door.

_Oh, no. Veronica Lodge._

Veronica's black dress had an ominously pointed collar, and her stilettos were dangerous. She tossed her head, the light catching her pearl earring, and when she met his eyes, it was clear that there was no shielding himself from this. 

“Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third,” she said.

“Veronica, look-“

“Don’t speak!” She waved her hand sharply. “This is a courtesy call, you traitorous snake. I’m going to destroy you for what you’ve done to Betty Cooper.”

“Go ahead. What do I have to lose?

That threw her off her stride, but only for a moment. “You’ll be blacklisted. No one will dare print any of your so-called Art.”

Jughead scowled at Veronica’s arrogance. _I’m being punished for a thought crime._ He’d only showed the story to his dead advisor and his best friend, and he lost interest in printing it weeks ago. Then he remembered Betty’s voice, cracking when she said she wasn’t a trope, and the resentment disappeared. 

“Hey!” Toni shouted, and he startled, because he’d forgotten she was there. “Don’t talk to him like that! Don’t your parents own the _Register_? Their Cooper coverage is worse than anything Jughead wrote, and it’s actually in circulation. Northsiders punishing Serpents for the same crimes they’ve committed. As usual. Hypocrites.”

“Yes, my parents own the _Register_. Not me. But I will. And when I do, I can pour their vitriol in another direction, let’s say...South? So don’t test me, Toni Topaz.”

Toni snorted. “We’ve dealt with bad press before. It doesn’t scare me.”

“It should,” she said. “You may have slept your way into the Blossoms’ good graces, but they’re big fish in a small pond, and the Lodges are sharks. I’m going back to New York City. I’ll be making friends with all the biggest, baddest sharks in the ocean.”

Jughead inhaled sharply when Toni started to stomp toward her. “Topaz!” he said forbiddingly, in his best Serpent Prince voice. “Let it go. Let me deal with it.” She didn’t move, muscles tense, and he jerked his head toward the door. 

“Fine,” she huffed, strolling inside. “For you. Not Little Miss Moneybags.”

“Veronica, what do you want from me? Do you want to hear that I’m sorry? I am. Do you want to hear that I’m scared of you? Frankly, I’m not. I’m exhausted. I’ll regret that I hurt Betty till the day I die, but I can’t take it back, so I’m trying to live with it. On my sister’s life, I swear I won’t deliberately hurt her again.”

Her voice softened. “Do you regret that she feels used? Or do you regret using her?”

“I never used her. Not...not on purpose, anyway. I didn’t realize that was what I was doing. It certainly wasn’t the reason I was dating her. I was dating her because I’m in love with her.” To think, Veronica was the first person he’s ever told, explicitly, that he’s in love with Betty Cooper. He rubbed the bobby pins on his hat unconsciously, and she furrowed her brow.

“What’s that?” she asked, stepping closer and peering up at him.

He took off his hat, careful to hold the pins in his fist so they wouldn’t fall. “Nothing,” he said hurriedly, running his hands through his hair. “Nothing, Lodge. Please. Are we done here?”

“Why didn’t you tell her you were writing it?” she asked.

“I was scared, ok?”

She tilted her head. “Why don’t you explain it to her now?”

“I tried, and it was a disaster. I’m not going to make it worse by barging in where I’m not wanted.”

She hummed thoughtfully, then spun on her heels, climbing back into the car without bothering to say goodbye.

Jughead shook his head to clear it and walked into the Wyrm, but the bar lights were glaring, the voices too loud, and his friends’ pats on the back were too heavy. After half a beer, he gave up and went for a ride.

Since then, he’s been riding everyday. He made it to the state line once. He considered crossing it, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Betty, clapping her hands and saying, “We should go on a road trip! Even if we only step over the state line. Wouldn’t it be nice to go somewhere new?” 

Sometimes he rides with Fangs and Sweet Pea. They must have heard what happened by now, but they don’t say her name-a blessing. He could barely make it through that last call with Archie, even though Archie was kinder to him than he expected. Part of him worried that he’d lose Archie, too. 

“You have to do something,” Archie said. Despite the rape and the murders, he remains purer and more hopeful than Jughead has ever been. “If you talk to her, she’ll forgive you. It’s Betty! She doesn’t hold grudges. She forgives me, even when I’m a bad friend.”

 _What are your great sins against her?_ he scoffed internally. _Forgetting her birthday? Turning her down for a date?_

“You can’t let it end here. You need to show her that you’re sorry. That you care.”

“I told her I care,” Jughead said, throwing up his hands. “I showed her.”

 _And she gave up on me the first time I messed up,_ he thought. _Like my counselor. Like my mom._

After the fire, his mother cried whenever he said he was sorry, and the more he made her cry, the less she wanted to be near him. She stopped squeezing his shoulder when she passed him in the kitchen. There were no more sing-a-longs. There were no more games of checkers. She said he was too old for kisses goodnight. When he was sick, she sat in the armchair with Jellybean, away from him, instead of letting him rest his head in her lap. At first, he worked harder to impress her-trailing her around the house, chattering about his arcade win and his A+ in math. But the more he chased her, the faster she ran. 

And FP, well...there’s no making peace with him before he’s ready. Even the sight of his son can be enough to set him off, chugging beers and shattering the empties, lifting Jughead by his collar when he tries to stop him. Jughead pulls all-nighters at Pop’s or crashes on friends’ couches until his dad’s had time to cool off.

He doesn’t want Betty to be hurt by the sight of him. 

“Well, tell her again!” Archie insisted. “Because she clearly doesn’t believe you love her. She’s going through a lot. She’s pretty sensitive.” His brow furrowed when he saw Jughead’s skeptical expression. “Hey, so. I don’t think I told you this but...after Geraldine, or Jennifer I guess-“ He inhaled deeply and Jughead tried to hide his shock, because Archie never talks about his rapist. “-it was hard to like, figure out how to be with Veronica. She would do all this nice stuff for me, but I couldn’t...I was really confused. I loved her, but I kept wondering if it was real, because I thought I loved Geraldine, and I thought she loved me back. And Veronica would get frustrated. She said that I was hot and cold.” 

Jughead raised his brow quizzically. He thought Veronica Lodge was the cold one.

“We’d have sex, and I’d be into it, I mean, it was my idea,” Archie continued, “and then I’d start thinking, ‘Is this all she wants from me?’ and I’d get all weird. We actually almost broke up once, because it was bothering her, how I was acting, and all the stuff I was holding in. We yelled at each other, and then I wrote her this song, ‘I Want To Be Yours,’ I’m sure you’ve heard me play it. And then we talked a lot, so I could sort through things, and it’s still hard to remember sometimes that she really does love me, you know? And that’s not easy for Ronnie. She has her own issues with the words ‘I love you.’ It took work. We worked together. But it was worth it.”

Touched that Archie opened up to him, Jughead thanked his friend, promising to think about it. But the truth is, he tries not to think at all.

Now, he is riding with his father. On good days, he cherishes their rides together, evidence of his father’s love for him. On bad days, he resents that FP sees them that way, as though they make up for the years of abuse and neglect. Regardless, Jughead’s never turned down an invitation.

They stop at their usual spot, a lake near the Centerville border. The air is so still that the water is glassine. _It should offend nature,_ he thinks, _that we were speeding so loudly through such perfect peace: two Jones men with destruction in our veins._ But a songbird trills, and the flowers don’t seem any worse off for their presence. 

FP’s posture is loose, as though it’s one of his happy-drunk nights. He smiles, softly, like an ordinary man. But there’s a shiv scar on his side and a snake over his heart, and he won’t let anyone forget it.

“Boy, you’ve been sulking so much that people are talking. Which is saying something, because we’ve seen you in some impressive sulks.”

“Is that the part you care about? People talking?”

“No,” he sighs. “Tall Boy‘s like the cobra who caught the canary, thinking you’re pouting over probation, but I had a feeling it was something else. So explain to me why my son, a boy in the prime of his life, a high school graduate, for God’s sake, isn’t out joyriding? Getting rowdy at the quarry with his friends?”

Jughead scowls, playing with his lighter. “I don’t ‘get rowdy.’”

“Alright, ok. Whatever your smart kid version of fun is. Why aren’t you having any? It’s summertime!”

Jughead fidgets, avoiding his father’s eyes. 

“Ooh,” FP says, knowingly. “Girl trouble, huh. No more fresh-baked cookies for us?”

He nudges him, and Jughead twitches. “I don’t want to talk about it.” _If I have to listen to Dad reminisce about what a ladies’ man he was in high school, I’m going to throw myself into this lake._

“Well, she’s Alice’s girl, so she must be a viper. What’d she do to you, son? Key your bike for cheating, when you were just out late playing pinball? Have her beagle chew your wallet when you didn’t pick up her call right away?”

“Huh? What? No. Betty doesn’t even have a dog? She’s not a viper. She’s strong but. No. She’s always been good to me.”

“So what’d you do? Throw a shoe through her window when you couldn’t find any pebbles? Some women don’t appreciate romance, boy. Did you tell her you like her makeup better the way she used to wear it? When a girl asks you how she looks, say she looks gorgeous. Don’t get into specifics.”

“No! I wrote something she didn’t like.”

His father stares at him blankly. “You wrote something bad in one of your stories? Was it dirty?”

“Oh my God, Dad. No, it wasn’t dirty. But it hurt her.”

“Well, you’re the one with the fancy words, aren’t you? Isn’t your forked tongue supposed to be silver? Write her something better. If she doesn't want you back, she'll throw it away. If she wants you back, she'll read it.” 

_Write her something better._ When they get home, Jughead pours himself a cup of coffee. Then he loads a sheet of paper into his typewriter.

————————————————————-

Jughead debated whether to attend Archie’s goodbye party. His instinct was to stay home, but Archie sent seven texts begging him to come, and he couldn’t bear to disappoint his friend. He reassures himself that he can disappear into the crowd if he crosses paths with Betty. 

Per Archie’s instruction, he arrives early, so he has first pick of the burgers. He has to park his bike a block away, because the street’s already filled with cars. He can hear laughter and classic rock in the distance. Jughead takes a deep breath, adjusts his hat, and straightens the collar of his leather jacket; he usually doesn’t wear it at the Andrews’ house, but Toni and Fangs are coming later, and they’ll be furious if they see him “shed his skin.” 

There are a couple dozen people in the yard, new graduates and their parents, and he can feel their eyes on him as he strolls toward the grill. Fred pats his back, loads his plate high with burgers, and says, loud and clear, “Jughead Jones! We’re so glad you came!”

At that, Archie bounds over, his dog Vegas at his heels, and pulls Jughead into a bro hug. Catching a glimpse of a blonde ponytail, Jughead crouches to pet the yellow lab and stay out of sight. 

“Relax,” Archie says. “Ronnie’s got her.” 

Archie draws him into a conversation about his new song and his new football team, but when booming cheers herald the arrival of the Bulldogs, Jughead decides to make himself scarce.

He turns left, but Cheryl Blossom is reclining on a lawn chair, and she lowers her red heart-shaped sunglasses to glare at him. He makes a sharp right. When he passes a group of middle-aged Northsiders, they erupt in disapproving whispers, and he rolls his eyes. But, to his surprise, he is not their only target. Some of them are glowering at the blonde standing alone on the other side of the lawn.

In photographs, Alice Cooper looks like June Cleaver. In person, her jawline is harder, and her eyes are sharper. The other Northsiders are drinking beer or fruit punch, but she sips whiskey from a highball glass.

Alice Cooper is an enigma. Jughead isn’t surprised that she and Betty are close. His happy memories of his own mother-rollerskating in the vacant lot, playing Clue, sharing root beer floats at Pop’s-are proof that cruel parents can be caring, and their children will love them even when their kindness makes the pain worse. 

What surprises Jughead is that she used to be a Southsider. According to FP, she was a cold-blooded viper who would have been a powerful Serpent, had she stayed. Jughead is awed that she escaped before the final stage of initiation, burning the bridge between the Northside and Southside to ash. Her upper middle class life is in shambles now; he doesn’t envy her that. Still, he can’t help but envy her strength of will. Jughead backslides every time he tries to make it out. _Like Michael Corleone_ , he thinks glumly.

She recognizes him, that’s for sure. He is careful not to flinch under her penetrating stare. He nods at her, and she smirks, and then she looks over his shoulder. He doesn’t need to move to know who’s behind him.

“Betty,” he says softly. He gasps at the sight of her: her ponytail lower than he’s ever seen it, her green eyes solemn. She’s wearing a chambray dress, the one he unbuttoned during the Twilight showing of _The Long, Hot Summer._ It hurts to look at her, and yet he cannot look away.

“Hi, Jughead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have just realized that every Bughead story I write involves Jughead owning a fancy lighter, Betty baking, Jughead writing a dramatic ode, and/or someone carrying a talisman of their not-so-lost love. I’m just going to accept that these are my fixed headcanons and hope you all forgive me lol.
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me this far! Please let me know what you think!


	14. switchblades

_He doesn’t look well._ That’s her first thought. Jughead’s undereye circles are darker than they’ve ever been. She wants to caress them like she used to, as though she could wipe his fatigue away with her fingertip.

 _But then, neither do I._ Veronica ordered her to dress up for the party. “Show him what he’s missing,” she said, waving waterproof mascara like a conductor’s baton. “Torture him.” But Betty would rather be comfortable. _There’s no point in pretending,_ she thought. _I won’t be that girl anymore._

“Hi,” he says, bouncing on his toes. “Um. It’s good to see you?”

“You don’t sound so sure.” She feels like he's scraped out her insides with his switchblade.

“I’d gladly look at nothing but you for the rest of my life,” he answers. Then, just as suddenly, he hunches his shoulders. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see me, so...I don’t know. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I guess.”

She doesn’t know how to process his declaration, so she ignores it. “You do make me uncomfortable,” she admits, and some dark part of her is gratified by his flinch. “But this is Archie’s day, and I refuse to make _him_ uncomfortable. So. Truce?” She doesn’t move to shake his hand.

His fingers twitch, like he, too, is recalling that handshake in the meadow, when he promised they’d be partners. “We don’t need a truce. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll go home right now, if you ask. I’ll carry your drink. I’ll spend the rest of the party in the basement. I only want you to be happy.”

“If only you felt that way weeks ago,” she says, wishing she didn’t sound so wistful.

“I did. I wish I’d done a better job showing it.”

 _What does he want?_ she wonders. _He can’t be after the story. Cheryl will immolate him. It must be a fetish for final girls._ She swallows, suddenly nauseous.

“If you let me, I will now,” he says.

At her frozen silence, he rocks back on his feet, stuttering, “...or not.”

“No, no,” she says-a reflex, and he retreats further. “I mean, we’re here and we can just...be here.” _What does that even mean?_ she groans.

His expression remains troubled. “Are you saying that because you mean it? Or are you saying it to be polite?”

He listened when she told him how hard she struggles to say no. He forgets nothing; no wonder he’d come to understand her better than some of her lifelong friends. It made what he wrote so much more painful; he knew how desperately she wanted to separate herself from her father, and he bound her to him anyway. 

Even so, she’s disarmed enough to reply, “I mean it.” His smile makes her dream of impossible things. 

How she longs to close her eyes to the rest of it. He’s here, and they’re alive, and she misses him, and she loves him, and she’s-

“B!” Veronica shouts, her voice a warning bell. Both Betty and Jughead jolt. 

“So I should…?” he asks, with a gesture she can’t decipher.

She nods. Veronica is waiting by the punch bowl with Kevin, tapping her foot, but she relaxes once Betty is near enough to hug. Betty congratulates herself for resisting the temptation to look back.

“What did he say? What did he do? What did _you_ say?” Kevin asks. “Fangs texted that he’s been an absolute wreck, and the Serpents came tonight to hold him together.”

“Absolutely not,” Veronica declares, with a brutal clap. “This is _my_ party. We aren’t wasting it talking about Jughead Jones. We should be dancing. First, we need to address Fred’s playlist, which is darling, but lacks the necessary...joie de vivre. Now I understand why Archie’s talent show submission was positively maudlin.”

“Where’s Archie?” Betty asks, and Kevin points to the group of Bulldogs roughhousing across the lawn.

“It’s like they can’t go a week without tackling each other,” he observes, amused.

“I didn’t want them here,” Veronica admits. “I told Archie to keep them out of trouble, and it seems to be working.” _Out of trouble or away from Crazy Cooper?_ Betty wonders, until she realizes it’s one and the same. 

“I’ll distract Fred,” Betty decides. “Just...work in a transition, so he doesn’t notice right away? It’ll hurt his feelings if he thinks we hate his music.”

As she weaves through the crowd, ignoring the whispers, Betty notices that all the parents are gone. Even her mom, the career snoop, only stayed long enough to stare down their neighbors and confirm her pie was the favorite. (It was.) 

Fred stands at the fringes, surveying the party with a satisfied smile. He slings an arm around her. “We did a good job, huh, kid? Hiram Lodge’ll never top it.”

“Oh, it was all you,” Betty demurs.

He puts his hands on her shoulders, “Don’t you do that, Betty Cooper. Don’t you discount your hard work.”

His voice softens, and he loosens his hold. “And I hope you know-because Archie, Mary, and I sure as hell do-that my son’s going to college because of you.”

Betty shrugs, “It was just test prep. Not totally selfless. I needed to study, too.”

“I can still see you two in our kitchen, singing that song you made up about the multiplication table. You never stopped helping him. Telling us about that Gibson woman...I don’t know if I ever thanked you for that. I can’t ever thank you enough.”

“He’s my best friend,” she replies, because that says it all, really. 

Archie was the one who held her hand and counted 1-2-3 when she was scared to jump into the swimming hole alone. He teased her into joining a food fight at school, then skipped practice to wash her shirt before Alice spotted the mess. After her father’s arrest, he stood guard at her locker and walked her to class, glaring at the bullies, shielding her with his body.

He was the one who said, with a gap-toothed grin, “This is Jug. He doesn’t go to our school, but we can still be best friends.”

Fred shakes his head. “You’re one of a kind, Betty Cooper, and I couldn’t be prouder of you than if you were my own daughter.” She hugs him tightly, teary-eyed, and murmurs her thanks against his chest.

“I’m not the only one who sees it, either.” He glances meaningfully toward Archie, Veronica, and Kevin, dancing with the River Vixens, and then nods towards the Serpents. Jughead looks away right after she turns her head.

Archie is singing, “Don’t you forget about me,” loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the crowd, and Fred hums along. “This is Mary’s favorite,” he explains.

There is a pause while Veronica switches playlists. Fred yawns. “I’m going to watch an old Western and fall asleep in my chair. You kids have fun.” He wags a finger. “Don’t be cleaning up, now. _Enjoy yourself._ ”

Kevin dances toward her and twirls her under his arm. Veronica cheers and claps, and Archie laughs. With exuberant joy in front of her, and quiet kindness at her back, Betty lets herself be loved.

————————-

Hours later, the crowd’s thinned out, but the party’s still raging. Cheryl and Toni are making out on a lawn chair, Kevin’s batting his eyelashes at Fangs, Archie and Veronica are slow dancing, and Chuck and Reggie are chugging lemonade; it must be spiked.

Betty chuckles to herself, deciding not to chance the punch, and heads home for a drink and a moment of solitude. Alice is knocked out upstairs, thanks to the pills and the white noise machine, so Betty doesn’t bother stepping lightly. Josie McCoy has taken control of the music, and Betty sways to the Pussycats’ crooning.

Sipping her iced tea, she opens the front door, then jumps back, because Chuck Clayton is admiring the hideous graffiti. 

He smirks. “They ever find who did it?” 

_You’d know,_ she thinks, but she only rolls her eyes and says, “Go away, Chuck. You weren’t even invited to this party.”

“I don’t see a velvet rope. Or a bouncer. Looks like I can go wherever. I. want.”

When Betty tries to move past him, he crowds her against the door, and the bottle falls to the ground. “This was supposed to be our best year, and you Coopers ruined it. It’s bad enough you fucked Moose up in the first place-“

“That wasn’t me! That was my dad!”

“-but then you got him locked up for it!”

She gasps, because she recognizes that expression: he's worried and lonely, the way she felt when Polly was at the convent. “Moose is sick,” she says gently. “Deep down, you know that. But he has a doctor now.”

Chuck scoffs, close enough for her to smell the liquor on his breath and the grass on his skin from the fall. “Like you tried to help me, with your little smear campaign? I almost lost my spot on the team because of you.” She pushes at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. Somehow, she’s more indignant than afraid. _None of that was my fault,_ Betty seethes, and, in her fury, for the first time, she believes it. 

She’s so fixated on his handsome, sneering face that she’s as shocked as he is when his arm is twisted behind his back.

“You scream or move a muscle, I’ll cut your tendon. Say goodbye to football,” Jughead says calmly.

“Ha! My boys’ll crush you, and you’ll end up in a cage, where you belong,” Chuck replies in a choked voice. He doesn’t move. 

“I’ve been locked up before. And your boys are staggering drunk next door, while my boys are coming around the corner.”

As if on cue, Sweet Pea shouts, “You got this?” and Chuck’s brows pull together in real fear. 

“I got it,” Jughead says dismissively. “Now I’m going to let go, and you’re going home. When you wake up tomorrow, you’re done with Betty Cooper. Repeat that back to me.”

“I’m done with Betty Cooper,” Chuck says in a smothered voice, and she can’t help but smirk. 

Jughead releases him, pockets his switchblade, and pats Chuck back in a parody of friendliness. “Good man.”

Sweet Pea follows the football player down the block, but Jughead stays, reaching for Betty’s hand.

“You ok?”

She huffs, stepping out of his reach. “A bit melodramatic, don’t you think? We both know you wouldn’t have cut him.”

“Better safe than sorry. Besides,” he adds shyly, “might as well do something good with a bad reputation. You told me that.”

She smiles despite herself, then ducks her head. Jughead picks up the fallen bottle. Although he could toss it in the bin next door, she finds herself inviting him inside. _What am I doing?_

“Do you want a drink?” she asks, and he nods. Flipping the lightswitch, she grabs the iced teas while he leans against the kitchen island.

“You didn’t need to do that,” she says.

He snorts. “I watched you take on the Ghoulies. I am well aware that you can handle Chuck Clayton. But you deserve to enjoy the party, so I figured I’d speed things along.”

 _He could’ve hurt you,_ she thinks, but she does not say it. At every tiny overture, he relaxes exponentially, and she is more confident when he’s off-balance. Nevertheless, she sits across from him, marveling at the effortlessness with which he’s drawn her back into his orbit. Betty is famous for her self-control, yet she cannot resist.

“How’d you know he followed me?” she asks. 

He swallows. “I was keeping an eye on things.”

“On me, you mean?” 

“Of course.”

There is a beat of silence. Then she asks, “Hey, Jughead...did you used to read _Nancy Drew,_ over at Archie’s?” 

He blushes, and her heart stutters in her chest. 

“They’re good books,” he mumbles.

“And you knew they were my favorite?”

He looks at her with helpless longing. “What do you want to hear? I’ll tell you the truth, if you want me to. I always wanted you.”

She scoffs. Inside, she is dizzy with hope and with fear.

“When we were ten,” he says, voice wavering, “you taught yourself Morse Code to send secret messages to Archie, but he was too busy with Little League to learn. I was ashamed to ask Mary for a ride to the library, so I couldn’t get the textbook, but I wanted so badly to share secrets with you.”

She straightens in her chair, hands flat on the table.

“When we were twelve, Caramel died, and I wanted to hug you, but I knew Alice would get mad, and besides, you’d have preferred a hug from Archie. So I chased this alley cat all over the trailer park, thinking maybe I could give him to you as a present, until Toni told me about rabies.”

A feeling is swelling in her chest that she cannot name. 

“When we were fifteen, you planned the Spring Fling, and the theme was Moon Dance, and you and Ethel spent hours stringing up streamers and those tiny lights, but your mom wouldn’t let you go, and I thought about borrowing Fred’s ladder to climb through your window and steal you away.” 

He takes a deep breath. “And when we were eighteen, you noticed me, and I got to know you, the real you, and I saw my future. And it’s not just writing or investigating. It’s making you happy. Even if what makes you happy is never seeing me again.”

He’s hunched over like she’s going to hit him when he whispers, “I love you, Betty.”

Betty is shocked into silence. She’s been trying all week to reorganize her memories of him, to make room for the truth, the same way she’s been searching for a killer in her memories of her father. She realizes now that she was trying to find proof that he's a villain, so she can hate him, so she can cut him off, unrepentant, and be free of this churning uncertainty.

But Jughead is not a villain. She has to admit that, at least. He’s backed her up with the Ghoulies, the Sisters, and Chuck, risking jail-or worse. Even if his ultimate goal was the story, the outcome was the same: he protected her. And he paid attention to her. But she is no longer the little girl he describes.

What is attractive about the bitter, fearful creature she’s become-except for her potential as a morbid muse?

He’s tapping his leg like a piano. She wants to leap into his lap, to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Instead, she redoes her ponytail, setting it a little bit higher, and asks, “Do you want to keep working on the convent project with me?”

“I’d love that!”

Betty wonders if she is the patsy Cheryl called her. She tells herself, _It’s for a good cause._

She tells herself she is immune to his smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me this long!!! Please let me know what you think! <3


	15. hats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning! Mention of torture, twisted religious indoctrination, and lots of what my grandma would call blasphemy.
> 
> In this story, the Sisters of Quiet Mercy is sort of a cartoon version of the Magdalene laundries and Irish mother and baby homes-the way that the Riverdale gangs are cartoon versions of actual gangs. I hope this doesn't come off as exploitative or insensitive. If it does, please let me know, and I will happily revise! Thank you!

At the stoplight, Jughead fiddles with the dial, searching for a song to break the silence. Every station’s playing a song about love: first love, lost love, star-crossed love. He’s tempted to bang his head against the steering wheel. Thankfully, Betty’s attention is fixed on the trees and the clouds.

Although his slacks and shirt are clean and pressed, and his loafers are minimally scuffed, he doubts he can pass for a good Catholic boy. Betty, on the other hand, looks like an angel-but then, she always does. Her dress is pink, like the one she wore out dancing, and he wonders if he’ll forever associate that shade with shame and blood. He opens his mouth to tell her that she’s beautiful, then closes it again. _Let her find peace in the trees and the clouds_ . _I’ve hurt her enough_. 

At the barbecue, he’d hoped to avoid Betty’s notice completely. He’d been afraid to face her. _She’ll sneer and turn her back on me,_ he thought, _or cry those awful angry tears._ He’d even brought his switchblade, in case Veronica sent a goon after him. When Betty approached him about a truce, his first instinct was to duck his head and step out of arm’s reach.

Then he realized that Archie was right: she didn’t know. She didn’t believe he loved her, or even that he wanted to see her again. When he hesitated, she tensed. When he let the silence stretch, she blinked back tears. Betty Cooper, famous for her ever-present smile, had abandoned her Riverdale’s sweetheart disguise. She showed him her wounds: their size and their shape, the rawness of their edges. He recognized his own fears in her eyes.

So he fought his instincts. Instead, he listened to the voice in his ear that said, “Act!”-it sounded a lot like Archie’s. To spare her doubt, Jughead confessed his secrets. He didn’t show her his own wounds, no, because Betty would have made them her own, but he did reveal the span of his affections.

Every moment they were together made him braver, because, when he moved closer, she didn’t run. She kept talking, even leaned towards him, once or twice. Now, here they are again: partners. Investigative partners, that is. He tells himself, _I don’t need more. This is enough._

But he can’t forget the feel of her hand in his-and she adored holding hands, even when people stared, as though being his girlfriend was something to flaunt. He can’t forget the sight of her body in his bed, or the tenderness in her voice when she told him she loved him. She said it so freely, as though he was so easy to love. He can’t forget. He doesn’t want to forget, no matter how much it hurts him.

Jughead takes a steadying breath. _Be professional,_ he orders himself, as he pulls into the parking lot. The church has stained glass windows, a narrow belltower, and a gargoyle that reminds him of the House of the Dead. 

“The clerk at the convent says Mercy girls do custodial work,” Betty says. He frowns into the side mirror, trying and failing to tame the curl over his forehead. “Try to smile and look...oh, I don’t know. Saintly. Or something.” She laughs.

“Don’t worry, Betts, I read the wiki. I know how to bless myself with holy water. Do you think it'll scald just because I’m a heathen gangster?” Betty snorts and shakes her head. 

Fortunately, they don’t have to snoop, because the secretary, a member since “long before your parents were born, dears,” is eager to discuss the Mercy girls. “The penitent,” she says, “are very diligent, because they’ve taken their experience of flagellation into their hearts. The Sisters are traditional, but the most effective methods are the tried and true, if you ask me.”

Betty flexes a fist, and Jughead puts his hands in his pockets so that he won’t touch her. 

“Flagellation?” he asks, voice carefully even. “Do you mean they whip the pregnant girls?” 

“Of course, dear.” 

Betty’s breath hitches, so he’s the one to continue, “We’ve been researching the traditions for our blog, to spread the word, you know? Would you mind going on the record?”

She starts to refuse, but Betty assures her, “We aren’t just a blog. We also had a school paper. Do you remember that music teacher at Riverdale High? We were the ones to make her crimes public.”

“Oh,” she says, impressed, “then I’d be happy to help you with your efforts to clean up our town. But you really ought to talk to Frances. I’ll take you to her.”

Betty scribbles in her spiral notebook-the one he gave her, he notes with pleasure-and they follow her down the hall. Jughead recoils at the smell of bleach and the sight of the woman scrubbing the floor. _She’s old,_ he realizes. _How strange, that they still call her a Mercy girl._

Once the secretary introduces them as friends, Frances answers Betty’s questions with unnerving candor. He expected defiance, fear, resentment, but this woman admires-even loves-the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. 

They held her down to shave her head, but, she explains, “They believed that I was worth saving, and they were devoting themselves to saving me.” Recounting the whippings, she says, “That’s what love is, isn’t it? Helping each other become our best selves.” When she describes her cell-small, cold, and empty, she insists, “They sent my baby to a better place, to be raised properly, because I was still being raised.”

Betty swallows visibly. “Do the other girls feel the same way?”

Frances scowls. “Oh, there are plenty of ungratefuls. They make a run for it. A couple live out by that dairy farm on Cypress Road."

As soon as they’re alone in the hall, Betty’s face crumples; she’s horrified by what could’ve happened to her sister. Jughead tries to distract her with jokes about the artwork-baby Jesus has the muscles of a CrossFit bro, and the Virgin bears a disturbing resemblance to Penelope Blossom. When the priest intercepts them at the door, her tiny smile disappears. 

“You’re a Cooper, aren’t you? You look like your father did, when he was a young man,” he says, and Betty nods-a reflex, Jughead is sure. He continues, “Remember, in Ezekiel, ‘For all life is mine: the life of the parent is like the life of the child, both are mine. Only the one who sins shall die.’”

Jughead scowls, grabs her hand, and pulls her toward the truck. _All anyone wants to talk about is the Black Hood,_ he thinks, outraged. Then he winces. _That was me, once._

Too agitated to drive, they sit in the truck in silence. Then Jughead hits the dashboard. “How could she be proud of it?” he asks. “How could she love them, after what they did?”

Betty’s smile is bitter. “You know the answer to that.”

He takes his hat out of his pocket, twisting it in his hands.

“I’d almost managed to justify it to myself, you know,” she says. “Maybe he’s mentally ill. Maybe his parents abused him. Maybe he was brainwashed by the church. Maybe he never meant it to go that far, but he got confused, and he couldn’t stop. Maybe he was trying to protect me.”

Jughead reaches for her hand, then hesitates, afraid of overstepping. When she squeezes her eyes shut in misery, he links their fingers.

“My father is evil, if there is such a thing. But he wasn’t only that. I loved him. I still love him, and a part of me will always want to believe in him.” She laughs, a jagged sound, but doesn’t let go of his hand. “Why am I telling you this? You’re the last person I should be talking to.”

“Betty.” His voice cracks, “I’ll keep your secrets, I promise. I don’t want to profit from them. I don’t want you making those kinds of excuses for me.” 

She pulls her hand away to cover her face. All he wants to do is wrap his arms around her, tight enough to make her feel safe.

“Let’s go to dinner,” he says, loud enough to jolt her out of her dark thoughts. “We’re all dressed up. We can go over our case notes, if you want.” _Please,_ he urges her silently. _Please._

Jughead’s never been a people person. With paper and pen (or posterboard, tacks, and thread), he can sort through their emotions and motives, but, even then, it takes time. In person, he tends to short-circuit when talking about feelings; he can’t tell who wants him and who wants him gone. 

But Jughead understands Betty. If she goes home now, she’ll sit at her desk and worry: about the Mercy girls, about Polly, about her father’s past. She’ll convince herself that it’s up to her to stage a rescue and raze the place to the ground, because the Sheriff can’t be trusted, and there’s no guarantee anyone will read their expose.

He cannot leave her alone tonight. 

Jughead holds his breath until she sighs, “Oh, fine.”

Perhaps he ought to feel guilty-he only made it past her defenses because she’s too tired to maintain them, but he feels triumphant. _Now, where to take her?_ He doesn’t want to bump into anyone they know, so Riverdale is out, and Greendale is overrun with Ghoulies at night. Toni dragged him to The Rabbit in Centerville once, but he’d rather eat communion wafers than their sandwich bread. 

“Do you like French food?” he asks. 

She raises her eyebrows. “In Centerville? The food’s delicious...but it’s kind of expensive. I went with Veronica.”

“It’s my treat,” he insists, “to celebrate the break in the case.”

She looks at him uncertainly, but doesn’t argue. He bites his cheek to hide his smile. 

Outside the restaurant, he is less confident, fidgeting as they park next to the frilly awning. Reluctantly, he sets his beanie on the bench seat.

Then Betty catches his eye. “Wear it,” she says with a gentle smile.

“...you think it will be alright?” Through the front window, he can see white tablecloths and taper candles. 

Her smile widens, “Who cares?” She picks up his hat, and he hopes she’s going to put it on his head, playfully, the way she used to. But she freezes, fingering the brim with a furrowed brow, and hands it to him.

Most of the menu is unfamiliar to him, so Betty explains each dish. Although she’s kind and patient, she doesn’t tease him about his prodigious appetite, the way she used to. The waiter nods approvingly at her accent, then frowns at Jughead’s hat, and he thinks, _I don’t belong here_. Of course, Jughead doesn’t particularly want to belong here. But he wants to give Betty a meal that’s too grand to translate into English. He wants her water glass filled as soon as it empties, and her crumbs cleared away as soon as they fall. He wants to be part of her special occasions.

Awkwardly steering the conversation away from the case, Jughead tells Betty about JB’s new hobby: making art out of melted crayons. Betty asks him what games her new niece and nephew might enjoy, explaining that she has little experience with young children. _No wonder Polly Cooper was so excited about having twins,_ he thinks. _She didn’t know what she was in for_.

“JB really liked ‘The Sweets Song’ when she was a baby,” he says.

“I’ve never heard of that one. Who is that by?”

“Oh, it’s by me. I just list all the desserts I like to the tune of ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.’”

At her laughter, he takes a smug sip of his water. “I want to hear it!” she demands, clapping her hands beneath her chin.

“An artist needs inspiration,” he declares. “We’ll have to go for dessert after this.”

She looks at him for a long moment, considering, and he hopes she can see what he’s thinking: _I want you, I love you, You can trust me_. 

Her rueful smile makes his stomach drop. Then she says, “Yes, Jughead. I’ll go with you.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm so grateful you've stuck with me this long! Please let me know what you think!


	16. primal screams

* * *

Betty buttons up the pale blue shirt and sighs. This is the third outfit she’s tried on this morning.

“That’s the one,” Kevin declares. “You look like a serious journalist-but Jughead will be dying to pop those buttons.”

Veronica huffs. “B, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you were investigating the case, not investigating each other.” 

“They can do both,” Kevin interrupts.

“I thought you were on my side,” she pouts.

“This is work,” Betty insists. “Besides, you're the one who told me to torture him! Not that I am. Torturing him, I mean. But if I was, it would be your idea.”

“This is not ‘torture the ex’ dress up. This is ‘ex sex’ dress up. Trust me: I, of all people, know the difference.”

The truth is, Veronica’s right: Betty’s blurring the lines. After the interviews at the church, Jughead took her out to dinner, and it felt like a date. He joked and teased, and she laughed like he’d never betrayed her. When he clutched his hat like a security blanket, she wanted to rub his back. He sang his silly dessert song at the ice cream shop, blushing furiously, and she wanted to hug him. With a hand on her elbow, he guided her around a crack in the pavement, and she wanted to link her arm with his. 

When she went home, she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. The next morning, she called her sister. Polly assured her that the nuns never beat her. “The room was freezing, dinner was bread and water, and they made me scrub the floors, but that was the worst of it.” She sighed. “There’s no sense in dwelling on unhappy memories. I don’t understand you, Betty. I really don’t. It’s almost as if you enjoy darkness.”

Today, Betty is meeting more Mercy girls, and, unlike Polly, they sound eager to recount their unhappy memories. Kevin and Veronica are a welcome distraction from the case. 

“Don’t frown so, Bettykins. You’ll miss our gossip session/fashion shows when I’m gone. That top is gorgeous on you. I only wish you were wearing it to impress a worthy suitor.” 

“You’re right,” Betty admits. “I will miss you.’ Still, she could do without Veronica's commentary on her (mostly) professional relationship with Jughead Jones, so she encourages her to describe her new apartment in the city. 

“My bedroom decor will be inspired by _Cruel Intentions_ and _Marie Antoinette._ I adore canopies, don’t you? I'll send you swatches so we can get your room ready, B.” Betty hugs them both tightly when they leave, swallowing her gratitude and her grief.

At noon, Jughead picks her up in FP's truck. He is wearing the same outfit he wore to the church, and she realizes this must be his only set of professional clothes. When he catches her looking, he touches his beanie and says, “Best I could do.”

“You look very handsome,” she replies. He smiles bashfully, and she reminds herself, _You can’t trust him._

Staring out the window, she sees nothing, because she’s hyper-aware of his every movement, his every breath. By the time they turn onto the dirt road, her skin is buzzing, so when they spot the circle of little white houses, she sighs in relief.

The door opens before they’ve parked the car, and a collie runs to greet them. While Jughead crouches to pet the dog, Betty waves at the figure in the doorway; she’s seen her before, with longer hair and baby fat: Kate Morrison, born: 8/19/1986, eyes: brown, hair: brown, height: 5’2”, weight: 100 lbs, last seen 1/15/2004 wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans.

She welcomes them inside, shaking their hands and offering them a drink, which they refuse.

“Nice, huh?” she says, gesturing towards the couch with its embroidered pillows, the crate serving as a table, and the folk art on the walls.

“It’s beautiful,” Betty replies, as the collie curls up at her feet.

“You should see Caroline’s place. She’s taken up tapestry making. It looks like a medieval bower.”

“Was she at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy home?” Jughead asks.

Kate nods. “All three of us. That’s how we came to live together. I had friends from before, the ones who reported me missing. They helped me get on my feet, and I convinced the others to move out here. Well, it’s just Caroline now, because Rita married the farmhand, so, if you know anyone looking to rent, that third house is available. Some of the girls get sucked into that church as soon as the Sisters let them out, and they’re trapped forever.”

“What made you different, do you think?” 

“Like I said, I had friends. But I also let myself get mad. It’s easy to convince yourself you deserve to be treated badly, to lie down and stay down, and we did that for a while. But once I got angry, really, really angry at them for what they did to my friends, I started thinking: Maybe I should be angry at them for what they did to me. Fortunately, we live in the middle of nowhere, so I can do my primal screaming. Oh, and I had therapy. Lots and lots of therapy.”

Betty nods. Alice Cooper taught her daughters that anger is unladylike, so Betty turned her anger inward, digging her nails into her palms, skipping meals, and throwing herself into work. After her father’s arrest, she was afraid her anger would conjure up Hal Cooper’s murderous rage. But lately, she’s been losing control. She screams into her pillow. She tears at the grass. She throws books against the wall (the ones Jughead leant her.) She fantasizes about yelling: at the gawkers and the bullies, at her mother and her father. She does cheerleading routines alone in her bedroom, thinking, _If Cheryl saw me dance like this, she’d have to admit I have fire_. When the rush passes, the sadness and fatigue return, but for a moment she feels like she can levitate. The first time she said, “It’s not my fault” and believed it, she was smirking at the blade against Chuck Clayton’s wrist.

The door flings open and another woman enters, this one a stocky blonde. “Are these the reporters?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “Young, aren’t you?”

“She broke the Gibson-Grundy story,” Kate informs her. “Besides, I’d like to get what they did on record in as many places as we can.”

Caroline plops into a chair and says, “I brought soda bread and blackberry jam, so we don’t have to cry on an empty stomach. Sit down.” Jughead touches the table, then steps back, looking at Betty as if for permission. She nods, amused, and he tears the bread with gusto.

“This is as good as the jam at Pop’s. It’s my favorite.”

“It is the jam at Pop’s,” she says. “How do you think I make my living? I make jam and herbal teas-Greendale goes crazy for herbal teas. Kate here writes trashy romance novels, and Rita works with the cows.”

Betty accepts a glass of mint tea, but she barely tastes it, because she’s riveted by the women’s story. They detail the nuns’ brutality with rage, resentment, sorrow, and morbid humor. As the extrovert, Betty had expected to take the lead on the interview, but Jughead asks questions, too. He’s thoughtful and gentle, and she struggles to reconcile this boy with the one who wrote about her and her dad.

After the interview, the women are sniffling, and Betty is teary-eyed. Jughead’s polished off an entire loaf of bread, because he eats as much when he’s stressed as when he’s happy. 

“Anyway,” says Caroline. “If the nuns come after us, we can count on you for protection, right, Forsythe?”

"Um. Who?"

“I was raised in Riverdale! Of course I know who you are. I had such a crush on your dad when I was a little girl. God, he was hot in the nineties.” She elbows Betty playfully. “Who isn’t a sucker for a bad boy, am I right?”

“Yeah, you can call if you need a guard or...something,” Jughead says, leg bouncing.

Betty decides to rescue him, asking the women about their garden and their baking, accepting a bag of tea and a jar of jam. To her surprise, by the time they depart, she is almost calm.

“It’s a nice escape,” Jughead muses on the drive home. “I’m surprised they stayed.”

“What do you mean?”

“When my mom left town, she said there are two types of people in Riverdale: the ones who sink and the ones who run. I sure feel like I’m trapped in the tarpit.”

“I don’t think you are, Jug. You’re making your own way.”

He smiles ruefully. “I’m trying.” Then, tapping the steering wheel, he asks, “What does it look like to you? Freedom, I mean.”

“Getting out-of this place, of my mind, I don’t know. I want what they have. Not the cute little house and the dog and the tire swing, although that would be nice. I want to feel safe. I want to have fun.”

Betty wishes there was a map she could follow to happiness. Everyone deals with pain so differently, and she can’t tell which method is best. Her mother locks her pain in a chest and wraps it in barbed wire. Polly runs away from it, with New Age platitudes in her headphones. Veronica smothers it with cash, and Kevin fogs it with pheromones. Archie, well. Betty suspects that Archie would’ve ended up like Frances, if he didn’t have his family and friends. With Reggie and Chuck’s voices in his ear, making dirty jokes about being hot for teacher, he might've convinced himself that he deserved what Grundy did to him-or that what they had was real love. 

Jughead retreats. For a motorcycle-riding, switchblade-carrying gang member, he is surprisingly passive; he doesn’t start fights, and he brushes off the nasty whispers. Instead, he holds his pain inside himself, curling up in a corner to ruminate on his sins. According to Archie, that’s what he’s been doing since their break-up. She vacillates between sympathizing with him and resenting him for it.

Betty wishes she could tell him to pull over. He would, if she asked. But how would she explain herself? _Hey, Jug, can we make a stop? I need to run into the woods and primal scream because you broke my heart and I still love you?_

She looks over at him, wishing she could tell him to pull over, to scatter her buttons and make her stop thinking.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Declaring Pop’s neutral territory, they work at the diner, Betty typing up the notes and Jughead starting the article. “If you publish some trashy book about this, you’ll regret it,” she warns him, and he immediately shares the document so she can read and edit. 

“I’ll show you anything I write before I even think about printing it,” he promises, and the hurt in his eyes almost makes her ashamed. He does seem to be reformed. He hasn’t asked her about her family. He’s kind to the Mercy girls, and he treats them like complicated human beings, not victims, sinners, or pulp fiction characters. But appearances can be deceiving.

When the waitress arrives, Betty orders him a vanilla milkshake-his favorite. He used to steal her cherries and hold them over her head like mistletoe, demanding a kiss for each one. She wants him to ask the waitress for an extra straw, like he used to. _Goddamn him for being so gorgeous._

The man behind her is muttering, though only a few words are audible: “animal control,” “snake infestation,” “better off dead.” All the frustration, longing, grief, rage, and lust in Betty’s body rises to the surface at once, and she whirls around.

“What did you say?” she snarls, pointing her fork in his direction.

He jumps, knocking over a salt shaker. “Uh...um.”

“Come on. Say it to our faces.”

He says nothing, and Jughead touches her elbow, ready to pull her back.

“Coward. You don’t know anything about him. Or the Serpents, I bet. How dare you judge what you don’t understand.” She’s talking about Jughead, but also her mom, Polly, the Mercy girls, Archie...herself. 

“Betty.”

She turns around when the man waves for his check. “No, Jug. I’m tired of it. I’m so tired.” Betty flexes her fists. “I’ll be right back,” she says. “Would you mind getting the bill?” 

She splashes cold water on her neck, and when she looks in the mirror, she’s surprised to find that her blouse is crisp, her eyeliner precise, her ponytail high and tight. Except for her flushed cheeks, she’s prim and proper Betty Cooper. It makes her feel worse.

When she exits the bathroom, the booth is empty, and she panics, assuming that Jughead has abandoned her. Then she sees him waiting in the parking lot. When he was just a crush, she swooned over this view: his confident pose, his inscrutable face, his poetic beauty. Leaning against his motorcycle, he was the bad boy in her fantasies. Now, she knows better. The tapping of his fingers on the seat means he’s worried but doesn’t want to show it, and his beanie is low on his forehead, because he’s feeling insecure. So much has changed from the old days-sipping Arnold Palmers after cheerleading practice, sneaking shy glances at him through the window. 

Some things haven’t changed.

She walks toward him, and his smile drops when he registers the intensity of her expression. Ignoring the spectators in the diner, the trepidation in his face, and the fear in her own heart, she drags him down by the collar and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who made it this far!!! Please let me know what you think! <3


	17. playing house

_There’s no redemption,_ Jughead always said. _We learn our expectations were too high, we decide to lower them, and we call it forgiveness._

Jughead doesn’t want Betty’s forgiveness, not if it means she’s accepting less than she deserves. His goal since their break-up has been to help her see her own worth, to be her friend, to be her ally. He accepted that he would never kiss her again, and he was grateful that the grief killed his libido, because fantasizing about her felt like a violation.

And then she kissed him. It was a sailor-on-leave kiss. It was an airport-chase kiss. It was a lifted-leg kiss. Only the motorcycle at his back and her tight hold on his collar kept him from crumpling at her feet, and, when she fell back on her heels, he was afraid to open his eyes. She said, “Take me home," and it was an order. She sounded defiant. _What is she rebelling against?_ he wondered.

He handed her a helmet-her helmet, which he carried still-and drove to the Cooper house. Although he followed her passively, she kept a white-knuckle grip on his hand. “I’ll go where you want me, Betts,” he said. “I’m not running.”

“I don’t want to, either,” she replied, shoving him onto her bed, her palms against his shoulders. She seemed to take every zipper and button as a personal affront, and he took over so she wouldn’t break them. 

“I want you,” she said, and the words were a benediction, even if she flung them like a curse. 

“I want you, too,” he said, and his voice was as desperate as her kiss.

 _Are we together now?_ he wonders. They meet at Pop’s to write, but they order two milkshakes. She edits his work on his laptop, now; the only pen in her purse is basic black. They have sex every day, everywhere: in the back of Dad’s truck, by the Sweetwater River, at the Twilight, in her bed-but never at the trailer. They fall asleep together, and sometimes, he wakes to her caressing his hair, slowly, like they have all the time in the world. But sometimes, he wakes to her quiet crying, and she rolls on her side away from him, curling into a ball. 

_Should I say something?_ he wonders. But he is too afraid, and he senses fear in her, too-whether it’s fear of him or fear of herself, he does not know. He decides to follow her lead, so he spends his afternoons at Archie’s and his nights at Betty Cooper’s, and everyone pretends this is normal, this is healthy, this is love. 

She doesn’t text him like she did before, with a running commentary on her day, but he learns her schedule in snippets: shifts at the garage with Sweet Pea and Fangs, pancake breakfasts with Archie and Fred, mimosas with Kevin, movie nights with Veronica, dinners with her mom, even visits to the Mercy girls’ garden. He is more forthright, describing pool nights at the Whyte Wyrm, long shifts at the drive-in, sleeping on the cot in Fangs’ basement to dodge FP. He tells her about the limbo that is Serpent probation: how hard it is to distance himself from gang business when his friends are so entrenched in it, how he worries he’s abandoning them, how guilty he feels for being happy. She listens to his stories with interest; her advice is thoughtful and more encouraging than he thinks he deserves.

One night, just as he is nodding off, she nudges his shoulder and whispers, “Juggie.” When he turns to look at her, she shuts her eyes and says, “Nevermind.” 

Perhaps it was a warning, because, later, he wakes to her thrashing. Wedging his thumbs between her nails and palms, he calls her name, over and over, until she's jolted from her night terror. She’s coughing like a drowning victim, and when she opens her eyes, they are so lonely that he kisses her fists-a reflex, unconscious as breathing. Embarrassed by his daring, he moves away, but she shakes her head. “Stay,” she implores him, feather-soft, and he kisses her fist again, then her cheek, then her forehead, before pulling her safely against his chest. 

In the morning, in a determined voice, she repeats, “Stay. My mom’s going house-hunting upstate-she wants to live closer to Polly and the twins, even though Polly won’t take her calls-so I’ll have the house to myself.” 

“You’re not moving with her?” Jughead asks, startled.

“I’m finding my own place.” 

“Around here?” he asks breathlessly.

“Not in Riverdale, but close-by, I think. I’ll work at the garage and save up for whatever’s next.”

“Do you know where you want to end up?”

She laughs. “Not yet. Do you?”

He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Well, there’s no rush.”

 _No rush._ The phrase settles every vibrating nerve in his body. He realizes that there is time-time to contemplate, time to grow, time to discover, time to decide. Time with Betty, in whatever way he can have her.

So Alice leaves, and Jughead moves into the Cooper house. He buys groceries, because few pantries are prepared for a Jones, only to find that Betty has stuffed the fridge and cabinets with his favorites; she even bought another jar of blackberry jam.

And it’s somehow better than he imagined. Although he’s spent the night plenty, thanks to Alice’s reliance on sleeping pills and her preoccupation with the divorce, they’ve rarely had total privacy.

They settle into a routine quickly. Betty is up at dawn, and, by the time Jughead has staggered downstairs for his first cup of coffee, she’s finished her morning run. On sunny days, she drapes a blanket over the curtain rod to protect him from the glaring light. On gray days, she stays in bed, and they have the hazy, tender sex he’s been missing, their sighs and whispers muffled by the patter of the rain against the window. Occasionally, they shower together, and the feel of her hands massaging shampoo into his hair is decadent. 

The frilly yellow pillow that he favors stays on the right side of the bed, which they have silently agreed is his. The oversized polka dot mugs are reserved for his coffee. She clears a spot on her nightstand for his hat and a spot on her coffee table for his laptop. If he thanks her, she blushes, or she kisses him roughly, brushing him off.

She does not say, “I love you.” He waits.

——————-

Betty is working at the auto shop this afternoon; Jughead did his best to convince Sweet Pea to take her shift, but there was urgent Serpent business to attend to. “It isn’t fair,” Betty said, watching him shave, another late morning ritual. “Kev and V are getting facials, mani-pedis, and blowouts before the party, and they’ll look beautiful and perfect, and I…”

“You’ll look beautiful and perfect,” Jughead said matter-of-factly, rinsing the razor.

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be lucky if I’ve scrubbed away all the grease stains.”

“I’d be happy to check that you’re clean...everywhere,” he replied with a wink, and she laughed, tossing a guest towel at his face.

Now, deciding to take advantage of her absence, he knocks on the Andrews’ door.

Fred greets him with surprise. “Oh, Jug, Archie’s at the Pembrooke.”

“Yeah, I know. I was hoping you could do me a favor. Do you have any red paint?” 

Fred smiles, amused, and Jughead blushes. “Yeah, I got brushes, too. Come on back.”

Rummaging in the garage, he asks, “All good at the Coopers’?” Vegas trots over for a belly rub, and Jughead kneels to pet him. 

"Of course.” The real answer is more complicated. _Good: my (ex?)girlfriend invited me to play house, and she’s sweet and insatiable. Bad: she doesn’t tell me she loves me, too much affection makes her cringe, and I mentally add an “ex?” before “girlfriend” when I think of her._

He carries the paint can to the door, and Fred helps him set a tarp across the front step and tape the edges.

“You need anything else?” he asks.

“No. I have to do this myself.”

It takes longer than he expected to get an even coat, and the graffiti is still visible when he’s done. Sighing, Jughead accepts that this is a two day job and drives to the garage to pick up Betty. While she changes out of her coveralls, he small talks with Sweet Pea and waves to Mr. Fairlane, laughing at the man's begrudging nod. Every time Betty straddles Jughead’s motorcycle, he gives them a “You’re going to hell in a handbasket” frown. 

When they park on Elm St, Jughead rubs the nape of his neck. “We should use the back door. The paint is still wet, so. ”

Betty furrows her brow in confusion, then glances at the door. When she sees the inexpert paint job, she beams like he’s given her a ‘57 Cadillac-mountain laurel pink, her dream car. She throws herself at him, and he steadies her legs around his waist, laughing when she peppers his face with kisses.

He suspects they’d have tumbled into bed if not for Veronica Lodge, who'd never forgive them if they were late. The air simmers with happiness and lust as he watches Betty apply her makeup, admiring the precision with which she darkens her lashes and pinkens her cheeks. She swipes on pale lipstick, the kind he knows tastes like vanilla, and drops her fluffy robe to reveal lacy peach lingerie. 

“How does it look?” she asks, unaccountably nervous.

“Bardot in _Le Mepris._ You’re gorgeous-but then, you’re always gorgeous.”

Betty shakes her head dismissively, pinning her hair into some complicated up-do.

“It’s true, you know,” he says. “I’m not buttering you up. I wish you believed that.”

She shrugs, waving her hand as though it doesn’t matter that she doubts him-or that she doubts herself.

Then she reaches in her closet and pulls out the dress. The pink one. The one she was wearing when he broke her heart.

He presses his fingers to the cut wood beneath her window. She doesn't acknowledge his sudden dread.

“Zip me?”

 _Is this a message?_ he wonders. But her expression is placid, and she links her arm with his as they wait for the town car-Betty’s in heels tonight, and Veronica will not risk a fall. At first, Jughead had scoffed, but now he’s grateful; Betty is comfortable, and she rests her head on his shoulder the whole ride.

Despite Archie and Veronica’s long relationship, Jughead has never been to the Pembrooke. The decor is as predicted: crystal chandelier, marble floors, an enormous portrait of Veronica Lodge, and a table piled high with artfully wrapped gifts.

“Should we have brought something?” Jughead whispers, worried.

“No,” Betty replies. “They’re probably all from her parents. And maybe Cheryl, because the two of them have this obsession with one-upping each other’s presents.”

 _At least Toni will be here,_ he thinks, and, as if she read his mind, Toni turns the corner. She draws him into a hug while Veronica and Betty compliment each other’s outfits with bizarre enthusiasm. 

“That’s back on?” she asks, nudging his ribs. 

“I...think so? I’m crashing at her place while her mom’s gone and...I don’t know. It’s good? Sort of weird. Good."

“Well, it’s not going back to the way it was right away,” she replies sensibly. “Have you talked about what happened?”

“I apologized."

“No, I mean, have you had a sit down, really hashed it out. Raw honesty, ugly crying, make-up sex.”

He shifts nervously, and she rolls her eyes. “I’ll take that as a no. Jones, you’ve got to define the relationship.”

“It’s not that simple. And don’t judge me. There’s no way you’re having conversations about feelings with Cheryl Blossom. You fight like it’s recreational.”

“And yet we’ve never broken up,” she reminds him. “We have little ‘tiffs,’ as Cheryl calls them, but, when it comes to serious stuff? We scream at each other, we make melodramatic threats, we fuck, we sleep it off. Then we have tea and talk about what happened. What we feel. What we want. What we need.” 

He snorts at the image of Cheryl Blossom and Toni Topaz having a tea party at Thornhill, then flinches when she punches his bicep.

“I’m trying to help you. Don’t self-sabotage. She’ll forgive you. Maybe she already has,” and she looks meaningfully across the room. Betty is standing beside Archie, but she’s watching him, and when he meets her eyes, she smiles. 

——————

After three hours, Jughead has reached his limit. The hor d'oeuvres are tiny and the music is loud. Betty keeps abandoning him to dance with Veronica, who glares viciously whenever she catches his eye. Fangs has disappeared with Kevin-they’re probably fucking in the bathroom-and Archie is raiding the bar with his football bros. Four people have already approached Jughead for Jingle Jangle and frowned when he said he wasn’t holding, as though it was inconceivable that he’d be invited for any other reason. He hung out with Toni and Cheryl, but Blossom’s barbs scratched him one time too many.

He’s wondering whether he can sneak out for a burger when Betty returns to his side, flushed and giddy. “Juggie, are you sure you won’t dance with me? Not even for a slow song?”

He scowls, and she bats her lashes. Then he sighs, admitting defeat. “A slow song.” 

At Betty's triumphant nod, Veronica motions to the DJ. He plays a love song Jughead's never heard before, but Betty seems to like it, because she hums along. It sounds like peace. He's swaying out of rhythm, but she doesn't to mind. This close, he can see the fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, the frizzing hair at her crown, and the smudged mascara beneath her eye.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

She is caressing his nape when she replies, “So are you, Jug.” 

For a moment, they are the only two people in the world. He remembers that morning, all those weeks ago, when she pulled her quilt over their heads. “It’s you and me,” she whispered. “Just us,” before he surged up to kiss her in the rainbow shade.

Jughead kisses her now, deep and sure as he would if they were alone, and she does not shy away. When the song ends, they slow to a stop, and she doesn’t let go. They stand there embracing until a jock whoops and jostles them.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” she asks, and he perks up, hoping they can bail on the party. Instead, she leads him through the crowd and towards a hallway, past the velvet rope separating the private apartments from the lounge. She is scowling adorably at the teenagers who eye him with hostility and suspicion, and he is overcome with love for her, and with gratitude, that this dangerously loyal girl has deigned to defend him. Jughead Jones, weirdo Serpent Prince, is holding hands with the most stunning girl at this party, and he smiles smugly, because everyone can see them. 

She drags him into a guest bedroom, startling him out of his reverie, and turns her back. "Unzip me?" she asks. 

There is still defiance in her eyes. He wonders again, _What are you rebelling against?_ But there is joy there too, so he lets himself feel joy when she straddles him on the silky sheets. She kisses him. Her lipstick is long gone, and her mouth tastes like lemon and sugar. 

She whispers, “Juggie” in his ear. It almost sounds like “I love you.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for sticking with me this long! Please let me know what you think! <3

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually supposed to be a Hannibal story! I was binge watching and got stuck on the character of Abigail Hobbs. I don't know how the original idea turned into Betty Cooper's teen romance, but here we are?
> 
> I read some fic to get back in the Riverdale state of mind, and the following really affected me. They are all brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.
> 
> One Word by thepointoftheneedle  
> Follow the Light by littlebluednacer  
> A Revelation in the Light of Day by iconicponytail  
> The Devil’s Daughter by meditationonbaaal  
> Dogs Kill Cats Kill Dogs by paradiamond  
> A Murderous Desire (For Love) by singsongsung and sylwrites


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